


Black & Blue

by HognoseSnake



Series: Long Live the King [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action Dueling, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Aid, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's me so you know this is just many chapters of hurt/comfort, Not a romance, Platonic Cuddling, Spiders, Spying and Subterfuge, Torture, Whump, fantasy-ish, some dark themes but not too dark hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 81,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27457090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HognoseSnake/pseuds/HognoseSnake
Summary: It had been five months since he and Clay had arrived, bleeding, broken, to the kingdom of the Pig Nosed Lord, and four months since they’d walked free of the castle.It was strange, after all this time living on the knife's edge, to be free. But he knew, in the back of his mind, as long as the Mad King knew he was breathing, they could never be free.After escaping the crushing rule of the Mad King, George and Dream have settled into their roles in the Domain of Technoblade, the Pig-Nosed Lord. One spring afternoon, just as the flowers start blooming, news comes in from the fiefdom of the Mad King. Suddenly, they're both staring down the prospect of another long, dangerous journey.But they both knew. The Flag of the Pig-Nosed Lord would fly free over the land of the Mad King, and they would be the ones to raise it.Or they would die trying.[Sequel to 'Green & Gold']
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Zak Ahmed & Darryl Noveschosch
Series: Long Live the King [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912489
Comments: 441
Kudos: 1861





	1. The Hall of the Pig-Nosed Lord

**Author's Note:**

> 🐍 I'm back, baby! 🐍
> 
> The disclaimers again
> 
> 1: if George and Dream (or like, anyone else in the story) say they want fics like this taken down, I will take it down (as well as the rest of Long Live the King)  
> 1.5: Once again, this is a gen adventure story about friendship.
> 
> 2\. Seriously dubious medical procedures ahead, don't try any of this at home. Also very dubious discussion of bomb design, everything I know about tnt I learned from either Minecraft or Wikipedia
> 
> 3\. CW for Ryan Haywood. This whole thing was started long before Haywoodgate. The Mad King was originally a homage to Ryan. I thought for a long time about what to do about his presence in this fic. A) The Mad King is barely in this fic, I can promise you that much, aside from him being mentioned now and then as the kind of final antagonist. B) The Mad King doesn't behave like his namesake at all, and the only connection is in name. Basically, the Mad King Ryan is mentioned a bunch, but has little to do with the actual human Ryan. 
> 
> Okay, I think that's enough disclaimers! Onwards! 
> 
> CW: Vomit, (non-graphic) violence, explosives, alcohol (sort of underage drinking? Sapnap's 19 and where I'm from he's the legal drinking age so I'm saying that he's the legal drinking age in this fantasy setting)
> 
> [Minor edits 12/11/2020: changed Technoblade's "real" name to Dan as it was highlighted to me he doesn't want his actual real name spread around.]

It wasn’t yet ten in the morning, and George knew it was going to be a long, long day.

Someone had come into the Cleric’s, blue in the face, struggling to breathe, bringing a weepy teenager carrying a basketful of poisonous mushrooms in his wake, and George didn’t need old Al to tell him what had happened or what to do next. 

He burned his fingers on the brewing stand as he pulled the bubbling awkward potion from the heated rods and crammed the fermented spider’s eye in through the too-small opening, parts of the membrane coming off around the lip of the jar, cursing himself for not having more prepared and already in stock. By the time it had taken for the potion to boil he’d already wasted too much time. He shook the potion and watched it go dark and cloudy, a dark grey-yellow colour.

The man was lying on his side, making horrible choking, gasping noises as Jane desperately tried to comfort him, and he had half a second to feel bad about roughly shouldering her out of the way before he was tipping the contents of the potion bottle into his throat and roughly barking out an order for her to bring the basin. 

She managed to get it under him just in time for the man to vomit up the contents of his stomach. The room was filled with the awful, stinging stench of bile and half-digested mushrooms. Jane was watching, her face a little worryingly pale, George thought. George watched on, one hand reached out to steady the man. He took a painful, deep, gasping breath. Then another. And another, this one less painful and flopped onto his back, and George’s shoulders relaxed. 

“He’ll live,” he said to the room, and he heard Jane let out a little sigh. George turned to gather up the other things he’d need (some clean water, some milk, a little stale bread-) and found himself face to face with the weepy teenager. He felt another little stab of panic.

“He’ll uh,” he cleared his throat, wiping his hands on the front of his tunic absently, “He’ll be okay.” 

She sniffled and looked up at him with big, red-rimmed eyes. “I-I didn’t know they were-“ she took an enormous, sobbing breath. 

“Uh…” he stammered, glancing down at the basket of mushrooms, “you should probably throw those back in the forest where you found them.”

This did not have the desired effect, and the girl only cried harder.

Old Al cleared his throat from the rickety chair he sat in at the corner of the room, and raised his two bushy eyebrows at George. 

_Right. Bedside manner. Working on it,_ he thought. He took a steadying breath and turned back to the crying girl, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s alright,” George said, trying his best to smile encouragingly, “it was a mistake. Lesson, learned, right?” 

She just nodded. George prised the basket from her hands and started to lead her out of the room. 

“He’ll need a couple hours to recover, but as soon as he’s alright, we’ll send for you, okay?” he said, his voice carefully even and tone practiced and calming. She nodded, wiping at her face. The tears seemed to have stopped flowing, at least. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he said, “just go home, get some rest, drink some water, we’ll let you know when he’s better.” 

She blinked up at him and smiled, thinly, gently, and started shuffling home. George would have sent one of the more junior clerics with her, but they’d all been sent out to collect potion ingredients, or to weave bandages, or, or, or. 

George closed his eyes and rubbed them. 

It had been five months since he and Clay had arrived, bleeding, broken, to the kingdom of the Pig Nosed Lord, and four months since they’d walked free of the castle. George had been working as a cleric, and it had been…

Well, it had been great. It had been everything he’d ever wanted. He hadn’t quite completed his training, and certainly wasn’t the most senior cleric in the city (that honour went to old Al), but he was the most senior cleric under about sixty, and definitely the most senior, able-bodied cleric. He felt powerful, but still had guidance when he needed it. He felt respected, and every time one of the younger clerics came to him and asked a question he could answer, his chest swelled with pride. After all that time living under the thumb of the Mad King, he finally felt like he had some say in the shape of things, like with every life he saved he was tipping the scales back in favour of liberty, and freedom, and all those things the Mad King stood in opposition to. Like he was finally making a difference, doing important work.

Most days, he just felt tired. He had a dozen junior clerics running around, looking to _him_ for direction. He felt like all he did with his time was busy work. Making potions, keeping stock of what they had, planning ahead for the stock they needed to acquire, telling the junior clerics their bandages weren’t wound tightly enough, getting scolded by the more senior clerics when he messed up- 

It was overwhelming, some days. Darryl told him that was normal. George didn’t really feel normal. 

He dropped his hands and looked around at the wide, bustling street that led towards the Cleric’s office. Buildings rose around him, windows thrown open and the sounds of people living their lives drifting down towards where he stood. They weren’t quite at the centre of the city, but they were close, and the rhythmic knocking of horse hooves over the cobbled streets, the creaking of the wheels, the smell of damp laundry and wet stone seeped into George’s bones. 

Living in a city was still kind of overwhelming. He’d told Clay that and had expected him to laugh at George, but he’d just nodded. So at least he wasn’t alone. 

On days like today, he found himself missing those long and simple months in the wilderness with Clay. Then he remembered they’d narrowly avoided death the whole time, and missed it less. George laughed a little. 

He supposed this is what it felt like to grow up. 

He’d spent enough time thinking. He wiped his hands on the front of his tunic and went back in. 

Jane had disposed of the basin of puke and burned some herbs to neutralise the smell, and George was weirdly thankful he hadn’t had to tell her to do that. It showed initiative. Or something. The man himself was lying on his side again, groaning a little, but breathing easily. There was a faint wheezing that underscored his breath, but that would get cleared up easily enough.

“Thanks, Jane,” he said, and felt something settle in him when she smiled brightly over at him, “we’ll give him some milk in thirty minutes, and he should be out of here by midday.” 

“Sure thing,” she said, jotting it down. He’d been provided with a glass of water already, and there was a heel of day-old bread within arms reach. He’d be fine. 

George turned back to the stacks of potions. They’d run out of emetic. It wasn’t necessarily the most common potion they made, but it was the most crucial. Technoblade kept a bottle of it on him at all times, just in case something managed to slip past the kitchen staff into his food. It seemed paranoid to George, but most things about him seemed paranoid to George. He supposed that was how he’d stayed alive so long. 

“We need to make more emetics,” George said, “that could have been a _much_ closer call than it was.” 

“I agree,” said old Al, which wasn’t really necessary, but as the senior cleric he technically had final say in what happened. “Show Jane how.” 

George just barely held back a groan. 

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah.” He gestured for Jane to come over to the brewing station. 

George showed her the process of brewing the awkward potion, talked her through the steps of fermenting a spider’s eye, explained how you knew it was done by the wrinkles on the outer membrane and the smell. Jane stood silently and nodded along, dutifully answering the questions George posed her to make sure she was paying attention. 

He handed her a fermented spider eye and watched as she added one, and then his heart sunk as he watched her reach for a second one. 

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, probably too tightly, and she flinched back with wide eyes. 

George took a deep breath, and dropped her wrist. _Bedside manner, bedside manner._

“One,” he said, trying to stay calm, “you only use one. It gets dangerous if you use more than just the one, and you risk breaking your oath.” 

Jane went pale again. George distantly thought she should probably get that checked out. 

“But…I thought…” 

“You swear an oath to not use the knowledge you have to hurt others, right? To help them? To do what you have to to keep them safe?” George said, searching for the last vestiges of patience he had in him. 

“Yeah, yeah, but-“ 

“And now you know that if you put more than one of those in the awkward potion, you risk hurting someone. One is more than powerful enough to make a suitable emetic. Two just makes a poison.” 

“Yeah, I mean..I guess?”

“So now, if you do it, you could break your oath,” George finished slowly. Like she was an idiot. “You don’t _want_ to be a witch, do you?” 

He liked Jane. She was perfectly fine at what she did, and usually didn’t ask stupid questions, but it had already been a very trying day. 

Jane just nodded, jerkily. George felt the tense air of the room weigh heavily on his shoulders. 

There was a knock at the door, and the smell of llama, and George’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. 

“That’ll be Cal, with the melons and glistening powder,” George said, nodding his head towards the door. “Go take care of it.” 

Janne disappeared without needing to be told twice. George sighed and rubbed his face. 

“That was a bit harsh,” old Al said from his chair. George turned to him, eyes narrow. 

“I didn’t sign up to be a cleric to like, babysit a bunch of teenagers,” he said, rolling his eyes and starting to stopper up the potions. 

“Why did you sign up then?” Asked old Al. George’s shoulders slumped. He hadn’t realised how tense he’d been until it all leeched out of him at once. 

“To help people,” he said. 

“Sometimes, helping people is stitching a wound shut,” said old Al, his breath whistling through the gaps in his five remaining teeth, “and sometimes it’s teaching other people how to stitch a wound shut. You won’t be young forever, kid.” 

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, stoppering another potion bottle. He heard the rustling of Cal and their llamas outside the door, and Jane timidly taking inventory of what she’d been given. 

“It was important she knew,” George said, turning towards him. 

Old Al was too old to do most of the things a cleric needed to. His hands were too gnarled and imprecise to hold potion bottles. He couldn’t stand for long periods of time any more. He was going blind in one eye. But he had been doing this a long time, and had more than enough knowledge to parse out to his juniors. These days he sat in the old, rotting chair in the back corner and corrected George’s mistakes. 

George respected old Al. 

He did not like old Al. 

Old Al rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Would it have been so bad?” 

“She would have _broken_ her _oath,_ ” George said, articulating each word as clearly as he possibly could. Maybe old Al’s hearing was going too. He waved a hand dismissively. 

“She hasn’t technically sworn one yet. An earnest accident wouldn’t really have counted, anyway-“ 

“ _What?_ ” 

“Who would have known?” 

“Me! And you!” 

“And if we never told anyone?” 

George scoffed and rolled his eyes, noting down the expended potion components in a ledger. The room was tense and silent again. 

“Ugh, I can’t believe-“ 

“Back in the old days,” old Al said, and George shut his eyes to hide the fact he was rolling them again, “the punishment for breaking your oath was death. Clerics had to help everybody, regardless of how much money the patient had, whether they were a king or a peasant, whether they were your wife or sworn enemy. If you deliberately withheld help from someone, if you used what you knew against them, you broke your oath. If you broke the oath you weren’t a cleric, and the king had every right to punish you to the fullest extent of the law.” 

“Sounds great,” George said, setting up a couple more awkward potions and checking the time. 

“That’s why witches live out in the fringes of society,” old Al continued, “if they got caught they got killed. They were outlaws. They had nobody to rely on but each other. Which seemed fair.” 

“It does,” George agreed non-comittedly. He pulled out a vial of dried milk and mixed it with one of the already purified water bottles they kept on hand. 

“A lot of things seemed fair, back then,” and George glanced at him. Old Al’s eyes had glazed over. He was looking out the window, over the netherwart farm behind the office and out at the city beyond it. 

“There was a different king on the throne, then,” he said. “Things were much more…” 

George waited respectfully for old Al to finish his sentence, but it never happened. He sighed. 

“Everything’s different now,” he said, and placed the milk on the man’s bedside table. 

“Not everything,” old Al said, and he was giving George the kind of look that made him feel very, very small. He opened his mouth to ask what he meant but was interrupted by Jane returning, a satchel full of melon over one shoulder, and an elderly woman holding her arm in a way that clearly singled something was broken trailing behind her. 

George sighed and checked the clock. Ten-thirty. It was going to be a very, very long day.

* * *

His back was soaked with sweat, and the clash of his sword against his target’s sent tremors shooting up his arm. His shoulders ached with the weight of the armour, but he nimbly ducked out of the way of another sword stroke, lunging upwards to connect his shoulder with his target's chest. The target stumbled backwards, struggling to find his footing, and Clay pressed the advantage, knowing he was safe to cut out a little more wildly, to let his guard down in favour of a more frenzied and violent attack

This was familiar.

His target blocked, and parried, and intercepted the swings with his shield skilfully, as skilfully as if it were as easy as breathing. 

_It was getting to a point he really needed to stop-_

He was being repelled, suddenly, turned in a circle so he could be pinned against the back wall of the arena, and as he was trying to calculate a way out of it, to turn his target’s strength against him, the wind was knocked out of his lungs as his target bashed him in the chest with his shield. Dream fell flat on his back, and as he began to scramble to his feet, his target had a foot on his chest and a blade at his neck. 

Dream dropped his sword and shield, and held his empty palms up to his target, the technical losing condition for the exercise.

“I yield,” Clay said, and Techno took a couple steps back, sheathing his sword. He rolled his neck and flexed the grip muscles in his right hand. 

Clay just took some time to lie in the dirt and catch his breath. 

“You’re still fighting too politely,” Techno said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Clay laughed. 

“I’m sorry for being like, a good sport, I guess,” he huffed, and pushed himself into a sitting position. 

“The Mad King won’t be a good sport,” Techno said.

Clay shrugged. “I don’t know what you think this is going to achieve, dude, but-“ 

“I’m trainin’! I’m trainin’ with like, the guy that served as his top hunter for like twelve years! I’m learnin’ about the enemy, and-” Techno said defensively. 

Clay noticed he’d started dropping his g-s at the end of verbs. He noticed Techno did that, sometimes, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. There weren’t any of the signs in his body language he’d been trained to notice _(no anxiety, no tension, he wasn’t looking for someone, he wasn’t on watch, but he hadn’t let his guard down either, he wasn’t at ease, he wasn’t-)_ so he couldn’t be sure _._

He distantly wished George was here. George would probably be able to work out what it meant when Techno started clipping his words short, he was smart like that. 

“Okay,” Clay scoffed, getting to his feet, “it was not _twelve years_ , it was like, nine, more like…four of me being his ‘top hunter’, and-“ 

“I don’t see-“ 

“We weren’t personally trained by the Mad King,” Clay said, interrupting the fierce Pig-Nosed Lord, “He had better things to do than like, train a bunch of pre-teens how to like, kill each other.” 

The Lord Technoblade scowled childishly at him. Clay rolled his eyes and pushed his mask up into his sweaty hair. 

It was an unseasonably warm winter's day, and the snowdrops were just starting to blossom. They were standing in the courtyard of Techno’s castle, and they were training. 

This was a daily thing. Techno had said something about wanting to get into the mind of his enemy, and prepare by duelling with someone who would be similar in their fighting style to him, and at that point Clay had zoned out but the next thing he knew, he was holding a dull sword and battered shield and Techno was goading him into a fight. 

He’d thought _at least this is familiar_ , and they’d spent that early winter afternoon fighting. And then they’d spent every afternoon fighting since.

He wasn’t going to be humble for no reason. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said Dream was the most feared hunter in the Mad King’s corps. He knew he was good, and he hadn’t gotten that reputation through smoke and mirrors.

But Techno was something else. He had no idea when he’d learned to fight, much less fight like a warrior. Like a knight. 

Like a manhunter.

It felt weird. He’d been at the top of his game for a very long time, and even before that he had only rarely lost. 

Each time with Techno was a challenge, and he lost more often than not. 

“Who did, then?” 

“What?” Clay blinked, startled out of his reverie. 

“Who trained you?” He glanced over to where Techno was stood, leaning against the arena wall. 

“There was like, a whole bunch of guys. I don’t remember their names or whatever,” he said, vaguely, and left it at that. 

These days he did his best to avoid remembering much of his adolescence, but he couldn’t help but be reminded of it every time he glanced down and saw the brand of the Mad King on his forearm. He was suddenly there again, standing in the freezing cold at the crack of dawn with water buckets in his outstretched hands. He’d stared grimly on, seen that same carefully neutral expression on the faces in the corners of his eyes as the trainers walked up and down the ranks, barking insults, roughly correcting posture. 

He’d hated them, he had been determined not to remember a single one of their names or faces. He’d been fifteen and full of spit and vinegar, and had let their names and faces and voices slip from his mind as easily as falling asleep. 

They’d all hated the trainers. He and the other kids used to stay up, late at night, cackling amongst themselves as someone did a particularly accurate impersonation. They’d whisper ghost stories to each other in the shadows of their shared dorms, one ear out for the sound of approaching footsteps. In the mornings they’d fight over breakfast and argue about who got to sit where, but it never had any edge to it. They’d swap rumours about what was on the training for that day, and gloat about their victories with no real energy. 

In retrospect, they’d all been shockingly normal. 

But as they’d grown, they’d started to become more and more like the faceless men that trained them. The arguments fell more meaningful, by the time they carried their weapons with them at all times. Their laughter had an edge to it now, a sharpness. He’d laughed along with them as they dragged Clerics and Leatherworkers in by their wrists, joined in on the jeering as they got thrown into the labyrinth of a dungeon the Mad King kept. They’d been his friends, he thought. 

Or he had, until he’d stood opposite Xilo in that swamp, sword drawn, and felt nothing at the prospect of killing him to protect the scrap of bones that had been his quarry. 

“What were they like?” Techno asked. “The guys that trained you or whatever.” 

Clay huffed a quiet, humourless laugh under his breath.

“Mad,” he said, and tugged the mask down back over his face. “They all are.” 

Techno had a _look_ on his face, and Clay scowled to himself, safe behind the mask. He felt like the look was meant to be meaningful, or convey some kind of…something. It was hard to tell. 

“Are we fighting, or what?” he huffed, irritated. Technoblade, the only man who had fought the Mad King and lived, the fearsome figure from ghost stories and folk myth, stuck his tongue out at him. 

“I was waitin’ for you,” he said. Clay rolled out his shoulders and got into the proper stance, swinging his blade around in elegant little circles. _I'm ready_. 

“Show off,” Techno scoffed, and turned to take his place. 

A streak of mischievous glee shot up through Clay’s spine, and before he bothered to think twice, he ran straight at Techno’s turned back. 

Techno heard the footsteps and swung around, just in time to get his shield up as Clay had prepared to deal the winning blow. He was sputtering out something about not being ready, parrying and accusing Clay of cheating. 

Clay was laughing breathlessly, blocking and parrying, sending kicks to Techno’s shins when the opportunity presented itself. Techno was cursing at him furiously, but even in the blur of battle Clay could see him grinning to himself. 

They pushed each other back and forth along the packed dirt, churning up little dust-clouds that caught on the sunlight. 

After a short while, Techno started gaining the upper-hand again, pushing him backwards and closer to the low stone wall that surrounded the yard. He knocked Clay’s shield out of his hand, and pressed his shield against his other hand, pinning him in place. Clay struggled a little, but Techno had his sword hand raised to deal a killing blow. 

With a flick of his wrist, Clay threw the sword into the air and caught it with his left hand. They moved in tandem, both bringing their blades up to the other’s neck, pressing the dull blade into the exposed skin of the throat. 

They stood there for a while, perfectly mirrored, before Techno sighed a huff of hot stinking breath over Clay’s masked face. He dropped his arm and stepped away. 

“We’ll call that one a draw,” he said. He wiped his sweaty forehead and pushed his dark hair up out of his face, walking back towards the centre of the yard. “Cheater, I wasn’t even ready.” 

Clay took the mask off and stuffed it in his pocket, grinning ear to ear, “You said I was being ‘too polite’.” 

“I didn’t say that meant you should start cheatin’!” he said over his shoulder. Clay laughed. 

“You gotta teach me that trick with the sword, though,” he said, and Clay nodded. 

“I dunno if it would be like…as effective, if you’re not ambidextrous,” he said. Techo shook his head dismissively. 

“Doesn’t matter how effective it is. As long as it keeps me alive.” 

Clay nodded, sheathing his sword and stretching out his arm. He sent a sidelong glance over to where Techno stood. He was staring down, off into space. 

Clay knew he was bad at reading people, but you didn’t have to be good at it to know something was up.

He wished George was here. 

“Uh,” he said. He didn’t have anything in particular to say, but he felt like the atmosphere was calling for _someone_ to say _something_. “Yeah.” _Damnit._

“But like,” he hurried to add, “you’re not gonna be like, going against the Mad King on your own or whatever, right?” 

“In an ideal world, no,” he said, and glanced over his shoulder, back towards the city. “But the world is rarely ideal.” 

“Pfft, okay, Edge-o-blade,” Clay said, and then immediately felt like that was perhaps the wrong thing to say. Techno scowled over at him and kicked a cloud of dust in his direction. 

“I’m not edgy, you’re edgy,” he said, scowling over at him. 

“Okay, mister ‘the world is rarely ideal’.” 

  
“Hah? I-“ Techno kicked a bit more dust over at Clay, who danced out of the way, “I don’t sound like that!” 

“Yeah you do!” Clay said, kicking some dust back at him. 

“At least I don’t laugh like someone stepped on a dog toy!” 

“I don’t-“ Clay laughed, wheezing, immediately proving Technoblade right. Techno started laughing, giving Clay an opening, and he kicked dirt over at him, only to have even more dirt kicked back, and he was getting ready to-

“Lord Techno,” a voice came, and they both stopped in their tracks. Technoblade cleared his throat, and drew himself up to his full height, turning to where one of the various advisors stood. She had her hair pulled back in a tidy bun, her uniform crisp and clean. 

“Brynn, Yes.” 

“Someone to see you,” she said, “in the throne room. They want to discuss the farming subsidies for next year.” 

“Right, yeah, yes,” he said, brushing himself down, “send them through and get Philza in the room with them, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I need time to wash.” 

“Of course, Lord Techno,” she said, bowing, and turning on her heels back towards the castle. Techno sighed. 

“Okay. Tomorrow,” he said, turning back to Clay, “you’re teaching me the sword-throw thing.” 

“Sure,” Clay said, walking with him towards the armoury, “I don’t need to…?“ 

“No, it’s just about-“ he waved his hand dismissively, “potatoes. Carrots. Pumpkins and stuff like that.” 

“Sounds…” _boring,_ “Important?” 

“Yeah,” he said, and there was something in the tone of voice, something that sounded _off._

“Well,” he said, and wracked his brains for something to take that weird flatness out of his voice, “at least it’ll be something different from getting beat up.” 

“H- I won all of those!” he said, shoving Clay a little. He took two steps to the side and then came back, bumping into him with his shoulder. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ tryhard,” he said, shaking his head. Techno headed off towards his chambers, throwing battered shield and dulled blade on the worktable and grabbing his diamond sword on the way out of the armoury. “until tomorrow, Greenman.” 

Clay waved goodbye to his retreating figure, and set about putting the armoury to rights. 

He checked the clock. It was only midday. He’d arranged with George and Nick to meet in the local tavern for drinks at six. He had another six hours of hovering around, trying to make himself useful.

Some days, he felt like he was on top of the world. He knew the Mad King’s court inside and out, the only other person who had anything even approaching that much knowledge was some guy called Skeppy, who’d gotten out of the corps before he’d even been branded.

It turns out that when you’re running a country, most of your days are spent looking at crop yields and tax policies. Clay didn’t have the patience or knowledge for either, so he mostly just stood in the corner looking menacing. Sometimes he was sent to the armoury to make sure everything was where it should be, that nothing was rusting. 

_(Techno had asked if he’d train new recruits. Clay had thought back to those mornings standing in the freezing cold with buckets in his outstretched hands, and declined, saying he’d supervise instead.)_

He glanced around the armoury at the shining blades, the perfectly put away shields. 

He sighed and wiped his sweaty hands on his front. It was going to be a long day. 

* * *

The basement stunk of gunpowder and soot, and Zak knew he had a dark grey streak running down his cheek. His hands were dry from packing sand into dense blocks, but his fingers were steady as he attached the fuse. 

“Okay, Bad, write this down,” he said, wiping his hand across his forehead and smearing gunpowder all over it, “that’s nine parts gunpowder, packed in a three by three alternating checkerboard fashion, alternating with dense sand and powdered concrete. Standard fuse with red stone activation.” He heard the dry scratching of quill over paper. 

He hefted up the block, held together by leather and string, and placed it onto the scale, adding counterweights one by one. 

“Contained in a leather wrapping, three millimetres thick, secured with string, standard thickness. Weight is…” he watched the scales even out, “just under five pounds, of which…”

“.5 is gunpowder, it’s around 10% gunpowder,”said Darryl. 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

He waited for the scratching to stop and turned back to Darryl, just barely visible in the dim light. 

Their workshop had to be underground, for obvious safety reasons, but also couldn’t be lit with the usual torches, for obvious safety reasons. The room was lit by gently glowing stones, mined from various parts around the Nether. It was enough to work by, but cast strange shadows across their faces. 

“That’s all the boring stuff done!” Zak grinned, and Darry sighed and shut the book. 

“You mean that’s all the _safe_ stuff done,” he said, and rubbed at his eyes under the glasses. 

“I don’t know _why_ you wanted to come and work in detonations with me if you don’t wanna blow stuff up, Bad!” Zak said. He got to his feet and hoisted the parcel up, practically skipping with glee down the stairs. 

“I wanted to come and work down here in this dark basement so you didn’t accidentally blow yourself up!” Darryl said, following him. 

Zak found himself in front of a familiar iron door, surrounded by thick, glassy black stone. He pressed the button with his hip and the door swung open just wide enough for him to step in and jump down the ledge into the embedded arena. 

The whole area was made from obsidian, the floor of which was rough and chipped from years of experimentation. The ceiling had more glowing stone, high enough up that it was just a little hard to see. In the centre of the large room was a small pedestal, which Zak deposited the block of explosive onto. He turned around to see Darryl up by the door, barrel in hand. Zak dashed over, catching the barrel when it landed and rolling it over towards the block of explosive. 

“I mean,” Darryl said, rolling another barrel in and down the ledge, “you haven’t even worked out a better way to test this stuff yet than just blowing a whole bunch of stuff up.” 

“Darryl!” Zak laughed, catching the barrel and rolling it over, a little distance away from the other one, “the whole reason we make this stuff is to blow other stuff up. What better way to test it?” 

“I don’t know!” sputtered Darryl, “maybe like…blowing stuff up in a safer environment? Or making smaller explosives? Or-“ 

“It doesn’t get safer or more controlled than this-“ 

“Okay, but-“

“And smaller explosives, pass me the barrel, don’t _really_ show what a particular design can do, because they scale-“ he hefted the barrel so it stood upright, a little distance away from the other one, “roughly exponentially, which is difficult to model-“ 

“I know that, I just don’t get why we have to go through this whole process every time-“ 

“-because this is the best way-“ 

“-we come up with a new design-“

“-to test the capabilities of each design-“ 

“-and could we _at least_ put _stairs_ in?” Darryl asked, pushing his glasses back up his nose, and shooting Zak a very exasperated look. Zak grinned. 

“Well,” he said, setting up the last barrel, “where would be the fun in that?” 

He pulled the fuse out of his pocket and attached it to the package, spooling it out towards the door. As he went, he checked the placement of the barrels (equally spaced, it looked even enough, he’d been doing this long enough to know when something was terribly out of place), before eventually running out of fuse. He was backed up against the ledge, which was about as tall as him, and looked back at the set up. He looked up and grinned widely at a particularly unamused looking Darryl. 

“Okay, pass me the redstone torch,” he said, hand out stretched. Darryl reached out to the left, to a place just out of Zak’s line of sight, and produced a torch for him, holding it just out of reach. 

“You’re _sure_ you’re ready?” he asked. Zak nodded.

“Come on, trust me, okay?” he tried to smile as reassuringly as possible. 

He and Darryl had been friends a long time. He thought that if he had a handful of sand for every time they’d had this interaction, he’d be able to retire to his own private beach. 

Darryl sighed and gently tossed Zak the torch, which he caught deftly. He let out a slow, steadying breath, feeling his heart rate increase pleasantly. 

He knelt down and touched the dully glowing torch to the fuse, which glowed hesitantly for just a few seconds before igniting, the spark travelling briskly along the length of twine. 

As quickly as he could, Zak turned around, getting a slight running start before jumping with all his might, hands just barely reaching over the ledge-

Darryl caught him, as he always did, hands wrapping around Zak’s wrists. He hoisted him up over the side, dragging him out of the room and shutting the iron door behind them. They both leaned against it, catching their breath, and waited…

waited…

waited…

And suddenly there was a huge _boom_ , and a force wave that could even be felt through the door, and they were stumbling forwards slightly, laughing, and Zak could hear himself cheering. 

It didn’t matter how many times they did it, it was exciting every time. He knew, even though Darryl got that wide-eyed prey-being-hunted look, he felt the same, he had that same exhilaration, that adrenaline from being so close to such danger, destruction, and be the ones in _control_. 

Or, at least, the satisfaction of a job well done. 

They’d arrived at the Domain of the Pig-Nosed Lord together a long time ago, and had been working with Technoblade in various capacities over the years. Darryl was still one of his most trusted advisors, but when he could spare the time he’d come down and do what he did best. 

Design explosives. 

The plan had long been to sneak in and detonate the castle of the Mad King. Zak had spent some time there, when he was much younger, had trained to be a manhunter before…before. It didn’t matter. He knew the layout of the castle, sort of, and that was the point. 

Now that they had Dream, they knew a bit better what they’d need to be blowing up. 

All they needed now was a way to blow it up. 

They worked well together. Darryl would do the maths, and the measuring. He’d work out how much of each component they’d need, and the best way to make it, and what the ratios and all that were. Zak would make the things, try out new designs. Experiment with the positioning of the payload.

So they’d been down here, trying to find a happy medium between powerful and transportable, and inexpensive, and subtle. The checkerboard idea had, in Zak’s opinion, been a stroke of genius. In theory it would act as a kind of firework, each little pack of gunpowder going off on a slight delay. 

They laughed at each other breathlessly, waiting for the smoke to clear, and then Darryl was pressing the button and the door was swinging open. Zak’s eyes widened, and he felt a shocked smile grow on his face. 

The barrels had been _obliterated._

He dropped down from the ledge, offering a hand to Darryl who followed suit, and they slowly walked around the arena. 

“Holy sh-“ 

“Language.” 

“Holy muffins,” Zak said, obligingly. Darryl nodded. 

“Yeah. The last one is usually at least salvageable,” he said, toeing a scrap of wood with his boot. “There’s no _way_ we’re reconstructing this.” 

“Like, this is the best one yet.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Like, by _far._ ”

“Yeah.” 

“Like-“ Zak said, starting to do the maths, “if this was able to blow up that barrel, that’s a blast radius of…uh…” 

“At least twenty-five meters, we’d need about twenty five pounds equally spaced to blow up the throne room,” Darryl said, looking up. He looked as shocked as Zak felt. 

“That’s manageable,” he said seriously. Zak cheered. 

“That’s manageable!” he echoed, and practically tackled Darryl into a hug, spinning him around and cheering victoriously. Darryl was cheering as well, a wide grin over his face. 

“One step closer, Bad,” he said, practically sprinting over to the ledge. He squatted down, ready to give Darryl a leg-up. Darryl ran over, and was helped up over the ledge by Zak. He turned around and offered a hand, which Zak accepted, scrambling over the ledge. 

“Come on,” he said, hot-footing it up the stairs, “let’s go tell Dan, or request an audience, or whatever we're meant to do.” 

“Zak, wait-“ Darryl said, and Zak screeched to a halt. He turned around just in time for a damp rag to get flung into his face. 

“You’re covered in gunpowder! You can’t go out looking like that,” he grinned. Zak rolled his eyes but dutifully wiped down his face, giving Darryl enough time to grab his notes. 

“Thanks Bad. Let’s go!” 

They ran up the stairs and burst out into the courtyard, into the bright afternoon sunshine. They blinked a little, letting their eyes adjust, and quickly made their way to the throne room. 

When Zak pushed open the double doors, standing in the ornate throne room, mouth already half open, he stopped, Darryl bumping into him from behind. 

There was a guy in ratty iron armour, the hair on the sides of his head cut short. He was leaning on Wilbur, another one of Techno’s most trusted advisors, his side covered in blood. Phil was standing next to the throne, and glanced up at them as they walked in. 

“Oh, good,” he said, “Bad, go get GeorgeNotFound. Wadzee’s hurt.” 

Darryl nodded once and turned on his heels, sprinting out of the throne room. Zak dashed forward and slotted himself under Wadzee’s other arm. 

“What happened?” he asked, 

“Things changed, in the Mad King’s kingdom,” Wadzee said, and then flinched in pain. “I need to talk to Techno.” 

Zak and Wilbur started slowly leading Wadzee through to another room. Zak felt suddenly weary, down to his bones, and it was only three in the afternoon. 

He got the feeling it was going to be a long day.

* * *

“And she was just standing there, _crying-“_

“Of course she was crying, George, her dad was _dying_ -“ 

“And I was just standing there freaking out because I’d already _told_ her he was going to be fine, and I looked down and she still had this basket of mushrooms in her hands, so I told her-“

“George!” 

“I told her she should probably get rid of them-“ 

Clay didn’t hear the rest of that sentence, because his howls of laughter covered up any words George might have been saying. He could feel the table vibrating as Nick slapped it a couple of times. He glanced down at George, sitting at the bench and scowling down at his drink, and felt a jolt of guilty panic before noticing the way the corners of his lips were turned up. 

He was trying not to laugh as well.

Clay wiped his eyes under his mask before pulling it back down, adjusting it so he could still see out of it properly. 

“Oh my god,” Clay giggled, “her dad was like, choking to death, and you tell her she should probably-“ 

“She should! I wasn’t _wrong_!” 

“It’s not _that_ , it’s just-“ Clay dissolved into fits of giggles again. 

“What did old Al have to say about it?” Nick asked, taking a swig of his drink.

“He didn’t have to say anything, he just gave me that look, like…” George trailed off, pulling an exaggerated scowl that made Nick snort into his drink. He sputtered, coughing wetly, spilling some more of his drink down his front, and that just sent Clay and George off again, and he knew they were probably getting dirty looks from the other tables, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

The inn was near Nick’s house, nothing especially fancy, but it served mediocre hot meals and inexpensive cold beer, so they ended up in the back corner of the room most nights. They were still in the long nights of winter, but the warmth from the stoves and the light from the torches cast the whole room in a warm, orange light. The room stank of unwashed bodies and stale beer. It was like nowhere Clay had been before. 

He loved it. There was something that felt so blessedly domestic and settled about having _their_ table, in the back corner by the window, in _their_ tavern near _their_ homes. 

Nick put his stein down on the scratched up, worn wood, and wiped his face. 

“George,” he whined, “you owe me a pint.” 

George opened his mouth to argue but Clay jumped in first. 

“It’s your round next, dude,” he said, and drained the remaining dregs of his drink. He watched George do the same. They pushed their mugs towards Nick, who graciously only grumbled a little before standing up and pushing his way through the crowd of people by the bar. 

“Bad day, then?” Clay asked. George shrugged. 

“A busy day. But like, pretty normal,” he said. 

“I saw you up at the castle?” Clay said, and hoped George would understand the question he wasn’t quite asking. 

He’d seen him briskly walking through the halls, trailing half a step behind Darryl, who was sweaty and a little pale. He’d felt a weird surge of excitement and relief, thought that maybe he wouldn’t just patrol the halls alone all day, that maybe George needed him for something. Clay had grinned, waved at George, opened his mouth to say something. George had just shook his head, holding one hand up in greeting, and hurried past. 

He’d been upset, crushingly so, for just a few seconds, before he started to think. 

Darryl, pale and sweating, the kind of sweating someone did after a long fast run _(target exhausted, strike to subdue)._ He hadn’t been looking at much of anything, his eyes flicking around the corridor, uneasy, unfocused ( _target distracted)_. George with his satchel, George not at the cleric’s ( _target on the move, abnormalities in the day)_ , George with that serious look on his face he’d seen up close as he’d wrapped Clay’s various cuts and scrapes all those months ago _(target distracted)_. The way his knuckles were white around the satchel ( _anxious, target distracted)._

Something was wrong. 

“Yeah,” George said, and Clay wasn’t generally good at reading social cues, but he was good at knowing when George was about to do something stupid, “sorry, I kind of-“ 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Clay said, waving one hand dismissively, “I figured that if you were doing a house-call something was up.” 

George nodded. Nick returned to the table, awkwardly scooting himself along the bench, and set the three foaming cups of beer on the table. George took his, and started to absently thumb designs over the condensation. 

“I can’t really…talk about why I was there, I don’t think,” he said, and glanced up at Clay from under his eyebrows. Clay nodded. 

Techno had an almost obsessive concern for secrecy, something he knew well. 

But if George had been dealing with _Techno_ , that just meant something was really, seriously wrong. 

He glanced across the table. Nick was frowning a little. 

“Is-“ he began, and Clay braced himself, “everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” George said lightly, and shot Clay a _look_. 

“So why can’t you talk about it?” Nick said, and there was the edge of argument in his voice. Clay pursed his lips. _Here we go_. 

“Because it’s my business?” George said, frostily. 

“If it’s serious, maybe w-“ 

“I can handle my own-“

Clay reached into his pocket and pulled out a well-loved pack of cards, slamming them loudly down on the table. The other twojumped and glared at him, and Clay let himself giggle a little. 

“Come on, if you two are done _gossiping_ ,” he said, “let’s play. My day was so fucking boring, I’m gonna die if we don’t.”

There were three breaths in which Clay was worried his distraction gambit hadn’t worked, before Nick reached out and grabbed the deck. 

“Fine,” he said, and started shuffling the cards with nimble fingers. George huffed into his beer, and that was the end of it. 

Clay mentally congratulated himself. Another argument avoided. 

He knew that George and Nick had been friends for a long time. He supposed that once you got to that stage in a friendship, arguments were to be expected. 

But sometimes the way they would get into explosive, aggressive, truly _bitter_ fights about absolutely _nothing_ would drive Clay up the wall. Once, they hadn’t spoken to each other for three days afterwards, and Clay had to run messages between them like they were at war or something. He thought he probably deserved a medal. 

He thought they should probably go to couples therapy, and that thought made him snicker to himself. 

“What?” George asked, laughing a little, but Clay just shook his head. He didn’t want to explain. 

By then, Nick had finished dealing the cards. 

“I still think he should have to play with the mask off,” George said, but there was no heat behind it. Because-

“No way, it’s too easy,” Nick said, turning over the first card in the river, “It’s like taking candy from a kid. Beating him just makes _me_ feel bad.” 

George knew it made Clay antsy to have the mask off in public anyway. He just wanted to be in the right.

Clay rolled his eyes and looked down at his hand, pulling a face. Nothing great. They didn’t need to know. 

“Check,” he said, and the next few minutes slipped by easily, focusing on the game, losing, winning, drinking. Between the beer, and the warmth of the room, he felt a thin fog fall over his brain. He felt himself let his guard down, just a bit, felt the ever-present tension in his shoulders start to ease ever so slightly- 

Another person sat down at the table, startling him, and he was halfway to drawing his sword and pushing George out of the window before he recognised the blond hair and toothy grin. He huffed a sigh. 

“I didn’t think they let kids in here,” Nick said, scooting up the bench to give Tommy space.

“You’re barely older than me!” Tommy cried indignantly. 

“Those three years make a big difference, don’t they?” Nick said, and smugly sipped his drink, letting out and exaggerated sigh of satisfaction at the end. 

“Ah, you’re a dick,” Tommy said, and settled himself in. “Deal me in, lads.” 

Nick glanced over at Clay, who nodded imperceptibly. 

They knew Tommy well enough. He hovered around the castle, getting in the way, making himself useful, causing then solving problems. They’d been in more than their fair share of meetings together, examining the floorpans for the Mad King’s castle again, and again, and again. 

He had his own friends, though. He never came to the tavern with them.

  
Clay squinted at him behind his mask. Shoulders slightly stiff ( _target on alert),_ he kept glancing over at the rest of them _(target on alert),_ he was talking a lot, too loudly, about nothing _(target anxious_ ). 

Something was wrong. Something he couldn’t talk about in a room full of people was wrong. 

Something at the castle. Something with Techno. 

Clay glanced over at George. His face was drawn and serious, even though he was talking like everything was normal. Nick’s free hand was flexing, forming into a fist, flexing, forming into a fist. 

They knew something was up too. 

They played cards. 

After a few rounds, Clay watched Tommy reach into his pocket and slip something into his hand. He looked up and over at Clay. 

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. 

“Argh, I fold,” he said, and sniffed, checking the clock above Clay’s head. “I’d better head off. I keep losing and this place sucks anyway.” He put is cards face down on the table. 

“It’s great, actually,” said Nick, taking another long pull of his beer, “if you can drink.” 

“Piss off,” Tommy said, shoved Nick a little, stood up, waved goodbye, left. Clay pulled the hand towards him. 

“What’d he have?” George asked. 

“Junk,” Clay said, looking at the pair of aces.

There was a third card there, written in Techno’s messy scrawl. _Basement. The three of you. Midnight._

Clay slid the scrap of paper across the bench to where George was sitting, who just barely glanced down at it before sending it along to Nick. Under the hum of other people talking, he heard the sound of paper tearing. 

He glanced at the clock behind him. Eight thirty. 

They had time for another few rounds. 

* * *

Arms crossed, leaning against the back wall, Technoblade watched them file one by one into the stinking basement. They’d cleared it out as best they could, just a smudge of gunpowder wiped across the table, and the lingering smell they would never be able to clean out. 

Spread out on the table was a well-worn floorpan of the Mad King’s castle. Sitting to his side, chest heavily bandaged, was Wadzee. 

He felt kind of bad keeping him up this late in the state he was in, but it was necessary. 

First through were Skeppy and Bad, navigating their way through the dim space like it was second nature. Shortly behind them were Tubbo and Innit, the excited energy coming off them in waves, chattering anxiously to Soot who was just behind them, and Philza following quietly behind him. Then NotFound, flanked by Dream, and finally Sapnap, who closed the door behind him. 

He did his best to think of them as advisors, guards, clerics, soldiers. As tactical pieces on a map, unfeeling, unthinking. 

He tried not to think of them as friends. 

“Thanks for staying up past bedtime,” he started, and a low chuckle flowed through the room. He wet his lips, and clutched the hilt of his sword tighter, so they wouldn’t see his hand shake. 

“There’s been news,” he said, and nodded to Wadzee, who started to stand up but only got half the way there before sitting back down. Techno fixed him with a look that he hoped said ‘get on with it’ and not ‘please, please for the love of _God_ don’t hurt yourself.’ 

He was a leader, he reminded himself. He had to lead. 

“Right. Uh, G’day,” he said, giving a thin smile, “My name’s Wadzee, if you don’t know me, I’ve been keeping an eye on the state of things in the Mad King’s kingdom. I’ve been undercover, but I guess they managed to find me,” he laughed sardonically. 

“Anyway, I came because there’s been a…a shift, I guess, in the way things are run over there. He’s um.” He paused, and wet his lips, “He’s sent his hunters out. To the villages.” 

Techno kept a weather eye on Dream, who leaned back in shock, tilting his head to one side. _Good. That definitely is unusual_. 

“What?” Skeppy laughed, “Why?“ 

“It’s not funny," Wadzee said, and Skeppy had the good grace to look chagrined, "It's really, really scuffed. They’re meant to be looking for some defector and cleric”- Techno tried not to notice the way George’s face fell, the way he looked a little sick, the way Clay put a steadying hand on his shoulder, squeezed once, dropped his arm again. 

_He noticed anyway. It stung. It stung all the more that he knew what he had to ask of them._

“But all they’re really doing is bruising up the villagers. Taking their stuff, taxing them like crazy. They found me, I dunno how, one of them must have been promised something in exchange for…Well. They left me for dead.” He laughed lowly again. “They shoulda known better.” 

“Thanks, Wadzee,” he said, “That’s all.” 

“That’s uh…” Tubbo started. 

“Fucked up?” Tommy supplied. 

“Language,” Bad muttered, and Skeppy elbowed him in the side. 

_The whole interaction stung._

“It’s good news,” Techno said, and let the shocked silence sit over the room for a bit. He pushed himself off from the wall and went over to where the floor plan was spread out, and tapped it with one finger. “The opportunity for defeating the enemy is often provided by the enemy himself. He’s sent the manhunters out of the capital. He’s alone there. He’s more defenceless than ever. We’re not going to get an opportunity like this again.” 

“You’re not…” Tubbo started, looking up at him with those huge eyes, “we’re not going to…” 

"We are," Techno said, and felt a stab of guilt through his stomach at the way Tubbo went pale. "We're going. We're going to go overthrow him."

“Do we have enough explosives?” Dream asked, and Techo was absurdly thankful that there was at least one other person thinking strategically. 

“Skeppy said he’s developed a new method,” he said, and a few eyes turned towards where he stood. 

“Yeah, but…” he started, “It would take at least a week to make them all-“ 

“You can make them en route, can’t you?” Techno asked coldly, and was relieved and horrified that he was talking to one of his _friends-_

_Allies. Advisors. Chess pieces, come on. The Mad King’s going to treat his people like weapons, you have to do the same._

“We could, yeah,” Bad said, and pushed his glasses back up his nose from where they’d slipped down endearingly. 

“Right. Then we’re ready.” 

The room was tense. The words felt weird and alien in his mouth. He didn’t feel ready. 

“Here’s the plan. We’ll travel through the nether. We won’t be able to find the exact village Wadzee left but with the number of abandoned portals scattered around the place we should be able to get close enough. We’ll leave our horses there and make our way to the Capital on foot, as stealthily as possible, attracting as little attention as we can. Once we’re there we’ll have Sapnap, who they’re not looking for and will not recognise, behave as the concerned citizen, turning NotFound and Dream in to the authorities. They’ll plant the explosives Bad and Skeppy had been making, Tubbo and Tommy will break them out, and we’ll blow the whole castle up. After that it’s just a matter of picking off the remaining fleas, one by one. Any questions?” 

“What am I doing?” Soot asked, and Techno was grateful they were starting with the easy ones. 

“Staying here.” 

_“What?”_

“He’s looking for us,” he said, as cooly as he could, and turned back to the floor plan, looking for anything they might have missed, “someone needs to stay here and manage the city of refugees we run. This is the only foothold we have, and if all of us go wandering off into the Mad King’s Kingdom we’re leaving it open to be taken. We can’t leave the whole place undefended for God knows how long.” 

“I’m coming with-“ 

“No, _Soot,_ ” Techno said, sharply raising his head, “you’re _not,_ and that’s an _order._ ” 

“He’s right,” Philza said, and Techno did his best not to let the relief show too clearly on his face. 

_Maybe Clay’s onto something with that whole mask thing_. 

“Someone’s gotta stay here. Protect everyone. It might as well be us, who’ve been here since the beginning.” 

“Yes. Exactly. Thank you, Phil..za. Philza,” he said. Phil gave him a gentle, thin smile. Soot rolled his eyes. 

“Fine,” he huffed, “fine.”

“Um…” Tubbo started, hesitantly, quietly, “why are we sending Dream and George as the prisoners?”

“He’s already looking for George, and they don’t know what he looks like. Dream-“ 

“Yeah,” George said, and Techno held back the urge to groan in frustration, “why _are_ we sending Dream as one of the prisoners?” 

“He-“

“He’ll get killed on _sight,_ ” George said, through gritted teeth, “he _defected_. They _know him_ , and even if they didn’t, he’s got the insignia of the Mad King _branded onto his arm_.”

He watched Dream’s hand go to cover it through his thick green coat, the movement subconscious and habitual. 

“Yeah, I’m with GeorgeNotFound,” Sapnap said, “It seems kinda dangerous sending Dream in there. It seems kinda dangerous to send either of them in there.” 

“Would you rather send NotFound in alone? Because-” 

“I think I’d rather a plan that didn’t involve uh… _anyone_ going into the building we’re gonna blow up?” 

“We’ll get them back out!” Techno said, and he could hear how defensive he was being. 

_Aggressive, you’re a leader, you’ve got to_ lead _them._

“And if we don’t?” Sapnap asked.

“What, do you not trust us or something?” Tommy asked, hackles raised.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that-“

“You know, if you’d send me and Phil,” Wilbur started, “we’d be able to be the ones taken prisoner. He doesn’t know us, and-” 

“I really think we should wait,” Darryl was saying, and Techno had no idea who he was addressing, “I just think that if we wait a week, we’ll be more prepared, we’ll have time to gather our strength, and formulate a better plan-“ 

Techno slammed his fist down on the table, and everyone fell silent. 

“I know, it will be dangerous,” he said, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to look up. “I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety. I…” He let out a long sigh, and said under his breath. “I’m doin’ the best with what I have.” 

He looked up at the faces of his friends staring back at him.

“None of us can rest until he’s _dead._ Right now, he’s more alone than ever. We’ll never be able to outnumber him, but right now, we can out manoeuvre him. If he’s already lookin’ for Dream ‘n NotFound, he won’t notice what the rest of us are doin’ once he’s got ‘em. He’ll be too busy celebratin’, and then we’ll strike.” 

There was a long, thick silence. Dan geared himself up for another argument, preparing his counter-points, when-

“Okay,” George said, huffing a sigh. Nick looked over at him, perplexed. George just shrugged. “He’s right. If he’s looking for us anyway, it’s only a matter of time until he finds us. As dangerous as it is, I don’t think ‘The Mad King’s Prison’ would even be the most dangerous place I’ve been this year.”

“What?” Nick choked out. George turned to nudge Clay. 

“Remember the spiders?” he asked, and Clay gagged slightly. 

They graciously didn’t mention the time Dream had been on death row in _his_ dungeons.

“Don’t remind me,” he said, “but you’re probably right. Those locks are pretty big and clunky, worst comes to worst we could just, like, smash it up. And he probably won’t have me killed on _sight._ If he’s already, like ‘got me’, he’ll want to draw it out. That gives us some time.” 

“Big and clunky is kind of ideal, for the locks,” said Tubbo, “they’re way easier to pick than fiddly little ones.” 

“Cool, I’m in,” Dream said. He looked over at Techno. Techno nodded once, and hoped that would convey his gratitude. 

“That means I’m in too, I guess,” Sapnap said, significantly less enthusiastically, but that didn’t matter. 

Techno turned towards Skeppy and Bad, who exchanged a look. Bad just shrugged, mouth a flat line, and Skeppy turned back towards Techno. 

“We’ve got the easy job,” he said, “so duh, we’re going.” 

“I’m going too!” Innit said, but Techno knew there’d never been any doubt about that. 

“Good. Yes,” Technoblade said, and drew himself up to his full height. 

“Get some rest. You have a day to get your affairs in order. We’ll ride at nightfall.” 

* * *

George walked back to the tower in a daze.

They were going to take down the Mad King. 

They were going to take down the Mad King _tomorrow._

He unlocked the door and started thinking about what he’d need to gather from the cleric’s. Potions, definitely, and some potion-making things. Bandages, suture. 

He might only be going as bait, but he was under no illusions. It was going to be dangerous. People were going to be hurt. 

He was a Cleric. He’d sworn an oath. He wasn’t going to let people die. He was going to take what he needed to keep them in one piece. 

He’d been in such a daze he hadn’t noticed that he’d wandered into his room until he was standing in the middle of it.  He started pulling out clothes, the old bedroll that had been gathering dust for the last several months, the axe that he really only used these days to chop firewood, the crossbow from his bedside and the few scatterings of crossbow bolts. 

He heard murmurings from downstairs and tensed. 

Nick and Clay. Right. 

Nick had come back with them. 

George paused. Why had Nick come back with them? 

He softly padded over to the top of the stairs, and heard the conversation drift up towards him. 

“..ask him to reconsider,” Nick was saying, “it’s super dangerous.” 

“I mean…” Clay said, “he kinda has a point, though. They’re gonna keep looking for him until they, like, find him.” 

“Yeah but like-“ he huffed, and George could see Nick in his mind’s eye crossing his arms and pouting. 

_That pout hadn’t changed in the last fifteen years._

“I just…he’s not like you, or me, he can’t like… _fight,_ ” Nick said, choosing his words carefully. 

George’s eyes narrowed. Were they-

“I think it’s been a while since you last saw him try to,” Clay said, “I’d be dead if he hadn’t been there in the fortress with me.” 

_Were they talking about-_

“Yeah, but he was using crossbow bolts, what does he do when he runs out?” There was an edge to Nick’s words now

“Look, I think it should be George’s choice,” Clay said, and George saw _red._

He walked quietly down the stairs, already fuming, already furiously angry. 

_How dare-_

“So you think George should get to choose whether he is sent to his death or not?” Nick was asking, “you know he’s going to do the ‘noble thing’ or whatever, and he’s going to _die,_ because-“ 

“Because _what_ , Sapnap?” George said, leaning against the door. They both flinched and turned around, Clay looking slightly guilty, Nick's eyes wide in surprise. 

“Go on, finish the sentence,” George said, not bothering to pretend he wasn’t mad. 

“Because you can’t fight!” Nick said, gesturing wildly, and Clay just managed to duck out of the way before he was smacked in the face. 

“When was the last time you saw me _try?_ ” 

“George, if you go, you will _die_ ,” Nick cried, and his voice broke halfway through the sentence. George took an angry step forward. 

“Will I? Because I’m weak?” 

“No, because it’s _dangerous.”_

“Of course it’s going to be dangerous! Everything we fucking do is dangerous! Living here is dangerous!” 

“Not as dangerous as-“ 

“Do not get me _fucking_ started on dangerous, Nick," he said, and jabbed a finger into Nick's chest, "you’re the one who-“ 

“Oh," Nick said, turning away for a moment before whipping back around, "that’s fucking big, what a big man you are George. That was _years_ ago, and I-“ 

“And even if it is dangerous-“ 

“It is dangerous!” 

“Then all the more reason to bring a _fucking cleric_ with you, Nick!” George was shouting now, paying no mind to the hour, to the rising moon, “I’m not going to sit here on my arse as you and Clay go get yourselves killed.” 

“Well, maybe you should!” 

They both viciously turned to Clay, who took a step back. 

“Tell him, Clay!” they both said in tandem. 

The air was thick with tension. Clay turned between the two of them, expression hidden behind the mask. 

“I,” he started, “am going to go feed Patches.” And he was up the stairs before either of them could object. 

George turned back to Nick, who was using the few inches he had on George to stare him down. 

But George had known Nick a long time. 

It wasn’t going to work. 

“I’m coming with you,” he said, as evenly as he could. “And if I’m not coming with you, I’m following behind you. Alone. At the back. Unguarded.” 

Nick was balling his hands up into fists, and George was convinced for a few long moments that he was going to start swinging. 

“Do whatever you fucking want,” Nick said, and the tension left him in a breath. As he walked past he bumped into George with his shoulder. George rolled his eyes and didn’t watch him go. 

* * *

Dan flicked the dandy brush along the dark coat of his horse, and let himself become absorbed in the familiar, repetitive motion. 

The smell of horse was thick in the quiet stable, the only noise being the early-morning birdsong, the occasional stamping of the horse's freshly-cleaned hooves. He knew he probably had people who would do this for him, but fuck it. It had been a long night, and he was looking at a long few months of being around people who wanted to ask him _questions_ , people who needed _answers_ , people who would trust him to lead them in and out of the jaws of _death-_

Rocket let out a little nicker, and Dan stroked his hand over his nose. 

“You don’t want answers, do you?” he murmured, and went back to brushing down his horse. “You’re just a horse. You don’t care whether I pick the right subsidy policy for potatoes.” 

The horse snorted. 

“Hm. Sage advice, ambassador Rocket. We should cut potato subsidies and put ‘em into apples instead. Very wise. Then there’d be more apples for you to eat ‘n make yourself sick on. What’re your thoughts about deposin' the Mad King?” 

Rocket said nothing. 

“Ah, your silence speaks a thousand words, Rocket,” he said, and pulled out the soft brush, “you don’t care whether we fail, do you? As long as you’ve got grass you’ll be happy.” He ran the brush down over Rocket’s neck, the glide of the bristles over the coat familiar and relaxing. 

“It sucks,” he said, “because everyone else is gonna be lookin’ to me for orders. And they’ll care if I give the wrong ones.” He paused, and looked up at Rocket. 

“Do the other horses think you’re in charge?” he asked. Rocket sighed. 

“It’s hard work, huh,” he said, going back to brushing down his coat, “bein’ in charge. A lot of pressure to do what’s right.” 

He moved along Rocket’s flank. “But you’re a good boy. You always do what’s right.” 

He glanced up at the position of the sun. “I’ve got a meetin’ with Wilbur Soot in a couple hours. I’ve gotta teach him how to be in charge.” He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe I can teach him so good that I can step down, and then you ’n me can go ridin’ all day long, no care in the world.” 

Rocket snorted again. 

“Yeah,” he said, and pressed his forehead against Rocket's flank. “Yeah. I’ve gotta finish what I started, first. Then we're ridin' off into the sunset together, where nobody can bother us for orders.” 

* * *

“I’m taking ten units of glistening melon, an additional ten units of glistening powder, two spider’s eyes, two ghast tears, and ten units of netherwart,” he rattled off, and Amanda scribbled down what he’d said into a big, leather-bound ledger. He stowed it all carefully in his pack, making sure to differentiate the healing potions from the emetics.

“I’ll take four glass bottles as well, uh…one suture kit, five rolls of gauze, and one bottle of whiskey.” 

“In case you get thirsty?” Amanda asked, and before George could roll his eyes at her and correct her, he glanced over, and there was a sharp smile on her face. 

“Ha ha,” he said, and started attaching the empty bottles to his belt. “Cal was here yesterday, we’re expecting them back in like four days.” 

“Yep, that’s all here,” she said, flipping through the book. 

“And Mrs. Berkshire-“

“Broken wrist?”

“Yeah, she’ll-“

“Be by tomorrow for her pain medication?” Amanda looked up from the book. George just nodded. 

He was the most senior, able-bodied cleric, but Amanda was a close second. Tall and lithe, she was whip-smart and had a knack for keeping things in order. Logically, he knew things would be fine with her in charge.

Still, he had to make sure things would still run smoothly without him. He was responsible like that. 

“We’ll be fine,” she said, closing the book with a heavy thud, “I've been working here for a year, and if it something comes up I’m sure old Al would be more than willing to help.” 

They both glanced towards where he was sat in his corner of the room, bathed in a warm beam of light from the setting sun. 

“Right she is,” said old Al. 

George nodded and ran down his mental list. _Stuff for regen, stuff for healing, emetics, awkward potions, bandages, bottles, needle and thread. They could make splints from loose wood, they could make other potions from carrots and melons they found in villages._

That just left one thing. 

“That’s everything then. I need just to ask you one last favour,” George sighed, and reached into his coat.

He watched Amanda’s face light up in a rare display of childlike glee.

“Oh my _gosh,_ ” she cooed, and yeah, Patches had that effect on people. She meowed petulantly. 

“This is my- _Dream’s_ cat,” he said, and Amanda already had her hands out to scoop the cat up into a protective hold, “her name’s Patches, but we’re both going away, so-“ 

“Of course I’ll look after her,” she said, and turned to where Patches was situated in her grip, purring loudly in that way she did. “Hi, baby, oh my gosh, you’re so _precious_.” 

“She needs feeding twice a day, but other than that just make sure she doesn’t get lost,” he said. 

“Sure, of course,” Amanda said, and went back to babbling at a very unimpressed looking Patches. 

It struck George, suddenly, why this trip was so different, why he was being so careful about having everything he needed. The last time he’d been out in the wilds of the Mad King’s fiefdom, he had nothing to lose. His home had been destroyed, his family gone, he thought Sapnap had been dead for years by that point anyway. Nobody would have missed him if anything had happened to him. It had been lonely, but he had felt weirdly free.

This time he had a cat. He had a table in the local tavern. He had a job. He had a gaggle of juniors who would miss him. He had friends who would wait for him to return. He had a _home._

He had people who would _mourn_ him if things went wrong.

The prospect of leaving it all, possibly for the last time, was so blindingly terrified he felt like he was drowning. He took a deep breath.

He was fighting for all this. To be allowed to return to this. To keep all this safe. 

He heard hoofbeats outside the door, and a few moments later Clay stuck his head in. 

“George? You ready?” 

George nodded, and slung his pack over his shoulders, and strapped the familiar axe to his side. 

_Time to go._


	2. In the Village of Ravengrave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the moonlight, Techno thought, they probably looked menacing._
> 
> The group travels into the heart of the Mad King's Kingdom with a clear sense of purpose and rock-solid plan. 
> 
> God knows how long those things will last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here it is! Thanks so so so much for the absolutely INSANE response to the first chapter! (450 kudos????? Holy Christ). Here is the long awaited second upload, which is a Double Upload! I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> As a side note, I have given Tubbo a different "real" name in this story because I'm not sure what his attitude towards having his actual real name is, so I figured I'd play it safe. 
> 
> CW for violence, gore, drinking

In the moonlight, Techno thought, they probably looked menacing. 

Single file, all on horseback, eight dark silhouettes moving through the empty city streets unspeaking. The only noise was the quiet clatter of their horses’ gleaming armour and the rumbling knocking of horse hooves over the uneven cobbles. 

_Good_ , he thought, _we want to look menacing. We want to be fearsome. We need to look strong, unified-_

His thoughs were interrupted by one of the horses behind him letting out a loud whinny, falling out of step, and Tommy cursing under his breath. 

“Shut _up_ , you dumb-“ he muttered. 

“That’s no way to talk to your horse,” Techno said, over his shoulder, aiming for a severe, scolding tone. 

“You gave me the crazy one!” Tommy sputtered indignantly, “this one always freaks out when I’m riding it.” 

“Maybe it’s because _you’re_ crazy,” Techno said, and heard Tommy scoff. 

“Just because you’re like, a horse whisperer or something,” Tommy grumbled back, just loud enough for Techno to hear. 

“I’m not a horse whisperer,” he said, and felt himself smile against his better judgement, “I just have two braincells to rub together that can produce a thought. If that horse acts all jumpy when you’re ridin’ it, and not when I’m ridin’ it, it must therefore not be a problem with the horse. Basic logic, honestly.” 

“Sure, Horse-o-blade,” Tommy said, and Tubbo giggled a little from a distance back. 

“Techno-horse,” he corrected, and the two of them dissolved into giggles. 

Techno rolled his eyes, grinned, and clicked down at Rocket. They easily slipped up into a trot, and the other horses followed suit, whether their riders were ready or not. 

He laughed to himself at the quiet panicking he could hear behind him, Tommy cursing him out, Darryl desperately trying to correct George’s posture, Wilbur laughing in that rich, warm way of his. Dream at the back, wheezing his laughter. 

Techno laughed, the movement familiar, Rocket calm and steady beneath him. He went to glance behind him and stopped halfway, catching sight of a face in the window, watching him go. 

He suddenly felt exposed, seen, keenly aware of the number of houses they were cruising past. 

The crown sat heavy on his head.

He forced himself to remember this wasn’t a trail ride. They were going to depose a tyrant. They were going to kill the Mad King. 

_Somber, calm, strong, straightforward. Leader._

He cleared his throat and gave a quiet ‘woah’, Rocket slowing back down into a brisk walk. 

Good leader that he was, the other horses followed suit. 

“You’re a total dickhead,” Tommy said, goading. 

Techno rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. _Leader. Lord. King._

They fell back into that threatening, calm, military silence. His back was ramrod straight as they rode through the streets, the houses surrounding them thinning out more and more until they found themselves at the city walls. 

Techno pulled Rocket to a stop and turned around, looking back over at the city he’d built, at the legacy he was leaving behind. 

He turned to Wilbur, who’d urged his horse up next to his. In the shadows cast by the full moon, his expression was unreadable, but he didn’t need to see his face to guess what he was thinking. 

They hadn’t talked about the fact he was leaving Wilbur behind, really, any more than to get Wilbur to promise he wouldn’t chase after them the minute his back was turned. He knew Wilbur had more than his fair share of bad blood with the Mad King, that he would have loved nothing more than to ride straight into the throne room and shoot him in the chest. 

But he needed someone here he could trust here, in the one place they had they could retreat to. Someone they knew would let them in if things went awry.

_He couldn’t admit to himself, yet, that he needed someone here that would look after the tens of thousands of people that lived here, that he was responsible for, the people whose lives he was staking on this journey into the heart of the Mad King’s kingdom, who would die if he didn’t succeed, who would die along with-_

“Stick an arrow through the Mad King’s eye for me, would you?” said Wilbur, and reached a hand out. Techno grasped it warmly, gratefully. 

“Take good care of it,” he said, nodding towards the city, and hoped it was conveying all the things he couldn’t say, “while I’m gone.” 

“Of course,” Wilbur said. “Just until you get back.” 

Techno nodded. Wilbur sat there, unmoving, still gripping Techno’s hand. 

It was too dark to make out his expression, but Dan didn’t need to. The tightness of the grip, the slight sweat on his palm. 

“I’m coming back,” he said, seriously. “We’re gonna come ridin’ through this gate with his head on a pike.” 

Wilbur let out a snort. “I’ll hold you to that.” 

He dropped his hand. Techno took off the crown, held it out. It glinted gently in the moonlight.

He’d thought he’d feel something watching it go. Some kind of wistful jealousy at the absence of the symbol of his power, his victories, of everything he had worked for and dreamed of living under the boot of the Mad King.

As Wilbur took it from his hand and tucked it into his coat, he felt nothing. 

He didn’t have the time to unpack what that meant.

Techno nodded to the rest of them, turned his horse around, and rode it out of the city, into the wide stretching plains. He heard the rumble of hoof-beats following behind him, first over stone, then over packed dirt, then swishing through the grass. 

He felt Wilbur’s eyes on him the whole time. He felt the weight of a thousand eyes on his back as he rode out into the wilderness. 

He wasn’t dumb. He knew this might be the last time he passed through these gates, for better, or-

He didn’t finish the thought. Not worth dwelling on, when the night is so dark, and the energy’s running so high. 

“Ready?” he called over his shoulder, and heard the expected wave of ‘aye’s and ‘yeah’s and ‘yep’s, and he eased Rocket into a trot, then a canter. It was second nature to shift forwards, to take his weight off Rocket’s back, and then they were flying through the dark over the moonlit plains, the route familiar to them both. 

For a few moments, between the darkness, and the smell of horse, and the clinking of armour and creaking of saddles, he almost felt like a kid again, out for a joyride late at night whilst his parents slept. 

The diamond sword was heavy against his side. 

Before long, they found what they were looking for. Techno gently coaxed Rocket back from his gallop, hearing the other riders do the same behind him. As they slowed to a walk, they found themselves stood before a little mound. Techno rubbed Rocket’s neck absently, then dismounted. 

He heard, rather than saw, the other riders do the same. He definitely saw Tommy get tangled up in the stirrups, though, and watched as he tumbled gracefully to the ground, landing on his ass in the damp grass. 

“Remind me why we couldn’t do this at daybreak?” he grumbled. 

“Too obvious,” Techno said, and took three confident strides forward towards him, “You never know who’s in the city.” 

“But if there _were_ spies, you’d assume-“ 

“I never assume anything, it’s why I’m still alive,” he said. He bent down to offer Tommy a hand up, which he took. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, fine,” he said, shaking out his arms and legs. “Just fell off my horse. No big deal.” 

“Good, we don’t have time to stop and baby you,” said Techno in his best ‘Fearsome Figure of Myth And Legend’ voice, before reaching out to muss Tommy’s hair. He swatted him away. 

“Piss off, Horse-o-blade.” 

“Language.” 

“‘Piss off’ isn’t a bad word, Bad,” Tommy said, turning around to face him directly, “I could have said f-“ 

“Uh,” came George’s voice from the back, blessedly interrupting whatever nonsense was about to happen between the other two, “Why are we stopping? Aren’t we meant to be…in the Nether?”

Techno smiled to himself, confident that it was hidden in the darkness. 

“We on our way. We just can’t ride the horses down,” Techno said, and took Rocket’s reins. “Too much of a chance of one of them stumblin’.” 

Techno lead the horse around the hill, to where he knew the mouth of the cave was. It was faint, especially in the light of the full moon, but there was just the barest hint of dark, purple light glowing up from the depths of the cave. 

He pulled a torch from his pack and light it against the cave wall, the warm orange glow emanating outwards. He heard a couple horses whine anxiously, stutter back. 

_Rocket, good boy that he was, didn’t even flinch._

“Come on, no time to lose,” Techno said, and started heading down into the dark depths of the cave, leading the horse down the gentle, stoney slope. 

He heard the rest of his friends follow behind. The descended down, into the depths of the earth, the cave smooth, the path wide and well-worn. There were brackets on the wall to hold a torch, and dusty chests filled with maps and compasses. 

Before long they were standing in a large cavern, in front of a large, carefully constructed nether portal. It hummed in that low, bone-shaking way that it did, the purple light spilling out over the dark grey stone. He heard the clinking of armour as a couple horses tossed their heads, but Rocket was steady. Calm. 

Techno ran a hand down his neck. 

“Don’t you have one of these in your basement?” George asked, and Techno snorted a laugh out through what remained of his nose.

“The path down ain't big enough for horses, and trust me, goin' on horseback through the nether is way quicker.” 

He geared himself up for an argument. 

“I’ll bet,” George agreed easily. Techno just nodded. He gestured to a little fresh water spring in the corner of the room. 

“Fill up your water skins and water your horses. Time passes different in the Nether, but it’s a long ride ahead of us either way.” 

There was the patter of feet over stone, and quiet murmurings rose up, mixing with the echoing splashing of horses drinking. Techno didn’t bother to parse out what they were saying - whether they were questioning his methods, or complaining about the hour, or whatever. He didn’t want to hear it. 

He gave Rocket free rein, and he strolled his way over to the spring, pace easy and unbothered. 

Techno stood in the middle of the room, and tried to look less awkward than he felt. 

Someone thrust a full waterskin at him and he jumped, turning sharply towards Skeppy.

Skeppy laughed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you, Techno-horse, b-“ 

“Would you stop calling me that?” Techno huffed, but knew the torch in his hand was showing him grinning all the same. 

“It’s a good name! I-“ 

“No it isn’t!” 

“I think it’s going to catch on.”

“Because you’re gonna _make_ it catch on.” 

“No…” Skeppy said, obviously lying, and Techno huffed a little laugh out and hoped it sounded exasperated. 

“Anyway, you forgot to fill your water up,” he said, and shook the full, heavy waterskin at Techno. He took it and stowed it in his pack, far from the maps and plans, next to his cowl. He stood for a while, staring down at the darkened contents of his pack. 

“Hey, uh,” Skeppy said, and his voice was low and close suddenly. Techno looked up and found himself nose to nearly-nose with Zak. “Do you really think we can…that it’s…” 

There was something guarded in Zak’s expression. A crease between his upturned eyebrows, the indent of teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Something uncertain. Vulnerable. Scared.

Dan knew how he felt.

He kept his face as neutral as possible, and nodded. 

It was a tense situation, there was no denying that. The last thing they needed now was to see their leader, the guy who was about to guide them through Hell and into the depths of the Mad King’s state, the guy who was about to commit a string of crimes for the second time in his relatively short life, the guy they were about to trust with their _lives_ show even an ounce of uncertainty. 

Uncertainty begets uncertainty, erratic behaviour, disobedience. They needed to be a cohesive unit. They needed to be able to follow his orders. 

_And it had nothing to do with the way Zak’s expression eased slightly._

Dan clapped Zak on the shoulder and shook him gently. 

“We’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“Well-“ Zak said.

“Nothin’.”

“I mean-“ 

“The plan is flawless. Nothin’s gonna go wrong.” 

“We could-“ 

“That sounds like a problem with you and not the plan.” 

“You don’t-“ 

“I can read your _mind,_ Zak,” he said, and Zak rolled his eyes skywards, laughing in exasperation. 

He glanced over his shoulder, at the rest of the team who would ultimately topple the Mad King’s rule once and for all. Nick had Tommy in a headlock for some reason, and George’s entire front was soaked with water whilst Clay and Theo laughed hysterically. 

It was unsettling. Dan couldn’t quite work out why, but there was something profoundly unsettling about watching his friends-

Advisors. Allies. Goons.

Chess pieces. 

He felt the phantom weight of the crown on his head. 

He stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a short whistle. Rocket’s ears swivelled forwards, and he briskly made his way over. The rest of them fell in line as Techno nimbly swung up onto Rocket’s back. 

“We’re going to be riding spread out. We don’t want to leave an obvious trail back and if we ride far enough apart our hoof-prints will blend in with the hoglins’. As long as you can see Sapnap you don’t need to worry about anything else. If you run into trouble it’s two sharp whistles, and-“ 

“What if I-“ 

“I was getting to that, Innit, shut up. If you can’t whistle the code is ‘creeper creeper creeper’. Clear?”

There were vague, cowled murmurs of assent from the assembled crowd. 

“Other than that, we’re riding in silence. We will break once. Sapnap, when you’re ready.” 

The rest of them mounted onto their horses, and Sapnap confidently rode through the portal into the suffocating heat of the Nether. 

Technoblade followed, without looking back. 

* * *

The ride was long and arduous, but nothing compared to that first time they’d travelled through the nether. 

Zak remembered it well, vividly remembered walking over the scorching rock for so long that Darryl’s shoes had fallen apart, blisters forming on the bottom of their feet and bursting so regularly that they both still had scars there to this day. He’d carried Darryl on his back for the final stretch, Darryl sick and malnourished after-

After. It didn’t matter. 

He’d sworn he’d never come back. _It was different this time_ , he told himself. He was on horseback. There were like seven other people riding alongside him. They knew where they were going, and were following a guy who was able to pick his way through the treacherous landscape without pissing off the locals. 

Said locals had been watching them pass by with wary, guarded expressions. Hanging back in the shadows, between the purple trunks of their strange myconid trees, watching them clatter over the burning stone towards their destination

Zak had thought the three links of Gold chain dangling from the saddle had been a slightly ostentatious, tacky part of Techno’s paranoia. He supposed he owed Techno an apology, even if he hadn’t actually voiced it. 

The threat of the nether was enough to keep him distracted for the long journey, which he was distantly grateful for, as eight hours of travelling in total silence would have been mind-numbingly dull otherwise. 

He kept his eyes trained on the black leather jacket of Sapnap, stark against the reds and blues of the nether. But in his periphery, he kept an eye on Darryl, riding along at a comfortable trot on his pale brown horse. 

He distantly remembered some folk-story or another about how that was a bad omen. Probably something old Mildred had muttered at them one day. Darryl probably remembered. 

They’d been friends a long time. 

He wasn’t quite sure what it was he was so worried about. He and Darryl would be fine. All they had to do was make explosives and not get caught. They weren’t going to be anywhere near the Mad King. He didn’t have a personal vendetta against either of them. It wasn’t like they were being _searched_ for. 

Probably. 

No, Definitely. There’s no way he’d remember either of them. It had been ages ago. It hadn’t been personal. They hadn’t been followed. There was no way either of them would be on any kind of list.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. 

He and Darryl made eye contact as they galloped over a particularly wide, uninterrupted stretch of the Nether. Zak grinned widely at him, and Darryl managed a thin, strained smile back. 

He seemed on edge. Zak supposed he could understand. The last time either of them had been in the Kingdom of the Mad King they’d left in a hurry, both of them leaving family and friends behind, chased by a band of manhunters. Neither of them had any fond memories. 

They’d be okay. Zak would make sure of it. 

Sapnap slowed his horse to a walk glancing around. He checked his watch, looked up at the rocky ceiling for something Zak did not see, and stopped his horse. 

The rest of them drifted to a stop around where Sapnap stood. He’d dismounted, crouched down, and pressed the back of his hand to the ground, waiting for something. 

“This will do,” he said, standing, wiping the sweat from his brow, “we passed Wadzee’s portal a couple hours back, we’re out of range now.” He turned to where Techno sat, on the back of his huge black horse. “It should drop us off close to his village, but not too close.” 

Techno nodded once and turned towards Tommy and Tubbo, who promptly dismounted and started going through their saddlebags for the chunks of obsidian they’d stowed earlier. 

Zak followed suit, dismounting and carelessly throwing the obsidian he’d carried onto the ground. Tommy walked past and picked it up, grumbling under his breath. 

“That wasn’t very nice,” Darryl said, and Zak started a little. He hadn’t noticed him come over. 

“He’s fine,” he said dismissively. Darryl rolled his eyes. He still seemed tense. 

“You know what really isn’t nice? Those saddle sores I’m going to get from eight hours on a horse,” he said, exaggerating a scowl, and Darryl snorted a little laugh. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“I’m serious, Bad! That was the most dangerous thing-“

“It was _not_ the most dangerous thing-“ 

“we’ve done all year, and our day job is-“

“-we’ve done all year, you’re such a drama queen, Zak-“

“-our day job is making explosives for a revolutionary!”

“Would you two keep your voices _down_ about that?” Techno snapped at them, “you wanna yell a bit louder about who it is you’re makin’ explosives for?” 

Zak shut his mouth, and Darryl laughed a little. Good. 

“Aww, don’t look so upset, Skeppy,” Darryl said, patronisingly patting him on the shoulder, “ _I_ feel bad for you and your sensitive thighs-“

Zak waggled his eyebrows. Darryl smacked his shoulder. 

“Don’t give me that look!” 

“Then don’t talk about my ‘sensitive’-“

“I did _not_ say it like that, oh my goodness-“

“‘Sensitive thighs’, Bad, seriously-“ 

“You were complaining about saddle sores! Don’t act like it came out of nowhere!” 

“You know else ca-“

“Do _not_ finish that sentence-“

“You know what else f-“

“Oh my-! You’re impossible,” Darryl said, very red in the face. Zak laughed, and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he said, placatingly, “I know you didn’t mean it.” 

Darryl smiled gratefully up at him. He nudged his glasses back up his nose. 

“You’re okay,” he said, and hoped his tone was ambiguous enough that Darryl would take it as a question. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. Zak pursed his lips.

“Really?” he asked quietly. 

Darryl met his eyes, and pursed his lips. To anyone else, this would have been a non-answer, but they’d been friends a long time. 

He wasn’t fine. It was to be expected. Nothing to do about it. They just had to make it through alive.

The clicking of flint on steel interrupted them. They turned their heads to where the portal stood, slightly misshapen and glowing with a dark purple light. It was humming lowly, the kind of frequency that made your bones rattle. Zak smiled at him, giving him a warm pat on the shoulder, and climbed back onto his horse. 

“Wait here,” Sapnap said, and stuck his head through the portal, his body blurring slightly where it came into contact with the purple film, and returned, head sopping wet. 

“It’s raining,” said Sapnap, shaking the water from his hair. Zak snickered. 

“Good,” Techno said, but did not elaborate. “Where are we?” 

“Hard to say,” said Sapnap, “some kind of forest. Maybe taiga. Safe to go ahead though.” 

“No village?” 

“Not in our sight-lines.” 

“The portal?” 

“Side of a hill.”

“Perfect.” Techno pulled his cowl out from his pack, pulling it up over his mouth, over the space where his nose should have been. 

When they’d first heard the rumours (the man with a pig’s nose, the Mad King had cut his nose off his face, he was disfigured, he was a monster), Zak had thought the absence of a nose would have been extremely, insurmountably distracting. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

As it was, it was just another one of those facts. Dan had brown hair. Dan had brown eyes. Dan had no nose. 

Still, he figured, probably noticeable enough for the average hunter. They agreed that they didn’t want to cause a scene, and stories of a man with no nose riding through the lands accompanied by a well-armed gang were going to spread. 

Zak distantly wished for a mask. He knew, logically, he wouldn’t need it, but he thought it might make him feel better. 

He checked the waterproofing in his pack one last time, and then Sapnap was climbing back onto the horse, and riding through the portal, followed by Tommy and Tubbo and Dan. 

He turned to Darryl, who gave him a thin smile. He gestured grandly for him to go first and Darryl laughed, rolling his eyes, disappearing through the purple mist, and then Zak was breathing in the cool, wet, muddy air of the overworld.

* * *

And then George was breathing in the cool, wet, muddy air of the overworld. He shivered a little at the sudden drop in temperature. Leaving the nether was always a shock and relief, like diving into a lake on a hot summer’s day. With the pouring rain, and the way his breath fogged out in front of him, steam rising from his horse’s nostrils, he figured it wasn’t just the change in temperature that was making him cold. 

Clay followed behind him, hurrying to pull the hood of his cloak over his head, pushing his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. He pulled out his waterskin, unscrewed it, and splashed water through the purple film. There was a quiet shattering sound, like a glass bottle dropping, and the portal disappeared. The smooth black frame stood empty on the hillside. 

Nothing would be following them through. Nothing would be following their footsteps back.

Clay nodded to Nick, and they set off again, following Nick in single file up to the summit of the hill, and wasn’t that something. 

George knew, distantly, that Nick must’ve learned _something_ in all that time he was wandering the wilderness of the Mad King’s kingdom. It was another thing to see it in action. 

The way Nick would pause, glance up, tilt his head to one side, it all looked practiced and familiar. He knew what he was doing. 

He had expertise. Or something, at least, to show for the three years they’d been apart. 

George knew this wasn’t necessarily surprising. He was nineteen now. A man, by most standards, who drank and gambled and stood guard outside the Pig-Nosed Lord’s castle. When he looked at him, he felt a strange sense of vertigo. He saw the kid he’d grown up with; cheerful, energetic. He saw the fifteen year old with a chip on his shoulder stalking off into the blue mists; wild, emotional. He saw the man he had grown into; capable, calm. 

George often wondered what Nick saw when he looked at him. 

They crested the hill and found themselves able to parse out the lay of the land. They weren’t quite in the mountains; foothills would be more accurate. It was hard to see very far ahead, with the rain sheeting down around them, but Nick was scanning the skyline, breathing in heavily. 

He pointed off into the distance. “There’s woodsmoke coming from that way.” 

“Campfire?” George tentatively suggested. Nick shook his head, and turned to look at George. 

“Not in this weather. Village.” His tone was serious, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. The ratty bandana hung limp behind him. There was something heavy in his gaze, like he expected George to argue, or something. 

“We should head in that direction, at least,” Techno said, his voice muffled by the cowl, “If we’re lucky we might be able to find somewhere dry to check a map.” 

“Can’t we just-“ Tubbo started, but Techno shook his head. 

“They’ll get ruined. The ink will run.” 

“But we could-“ 

“Tent would be too obvious.” 

“I just-“

“I know,” Techno said, placatingly, “but it’s a risk we should take.” 

George looked at Clay over his shoulder. Clay just shrugged. Good. George wasn’t the only one who had no idea what that whole conversation had been about. Techno was giving orders, but George wasn’t paying attention. They started moving again, following Nick’s careful lead down the muddy hill, the hooves slipping in the mud slightly. 

“It’s so weird when they do that,” George grumbled. 

“Do what?” Clay asked, barely paying attention.

“That thing where they have like, half a conversation.” 

“Is it that weird?” George turned to look at him momentarily, to watch him push the damp hair from his mask, “we do that sometimes.” 

“No we don’t,” he scoffed. 

“What about that time when-“

“Okay, that barely counts, it was really-“

“We were _with_ Bad and Skeppy, you can ask-“

“It’s not my fault they can’t-“ George narrowed his eyes, and turned over his shoulder, to see Clay just barely keeping in his laughter. 

George rolled his eyes. 

“You’re stupid.” 

“You’re stupid, stupid.” 

“I’m gonna kick you as soon as we get off the horses.” 

“Aww, Georgie, you don’t mean that, you _love_ me,” Clay cooed in that stupid way of his. George turned over his shoulder to scowl at him, and that just set Clay off again. 

As they descended into the forests, George felt himself settle into the silence. The gentle beat of hooves over the marshy ground, the loud rasping of his own breath. The forest around them was misty, he felt on edge. 

Clay wasn’t whistling either, which George had long learned to associate with something being seriously wrong. 

He felt exposed, sitting on the back of a horse, riding through the foggy forest. The rain sheeting down around them obscured any sounds of oncoming hunters, it blurred his peripheral vision. 

He heard Clay sniffle behind him, and felt a little better. 

He had no idea how long they’d cautiously been picking their way through the forest when they joined a tamped dirt road. They followed it, spreading out a little, when Nick stopped suddenly, held up one hand indicating for everyone to do the same. 

They sat in silence, apart from the rattling of rain on the ground. George’s knuckles were white where he gripped the reigns, shaking from the cold, or the adrenaline, he didn’t know. 

He strained to listen, and then heard it- 

Gruff voices. The clanking of weapons. Someone crying. Someone laughing.

It sounded distant, but it was coming from up ahead. 

Nick held up some kind of hand signal, and the people around him started to dismount as quietly as they could. George followed suit, sliding out of the saddle to stand on the ground. Nick was leading them down a little slope, diagonal to the path, back into the woods. They led their horses along, leaving them to graze in the forest. 

Crouching, they made their way through the forest until the shape of a house rose up from the mist. They pressed themselves against the wall. At some point, Clay had drawn his sword, and pulled the shield from his back. 

The voices were clearer, from here. Someone was begging, saying they had no money. Someone was laughing, gruffly, calling out to someone called Duckett, and George felt the breath stick in his throat. 

The last time he’d encountered manhunters had been six months ago, on the worst and best day of his life. He and Clay had killed them, and they’d made it out alive, but. 

But.

His hand ghosted over the scar he carried with him, right in the centre of his abdomen. 

“Hunters?” Techno whispered. Clay nodded once, and shifted just a little closer to George, so their shoulders were just barely brushing. 

Part of George wanted to roll his eyes. He wasn’t exactly a damsel in distress. Another part of George felt indescribably steadied. 

Techno stuck his head around the corner, and held up six fingers behind his back. 

Six hunters. 

_They could take six hunters._

George’s hand drifted down to his axe, but Nick caught his hand. 

“ _What_ ,” he hissed, “what do you think you’re _doing_.”

“We can’t just let them-“ George whispered back, but trailed off. He wasn’t sure how the sentence would end. 

_Let them suffer? Let them take the fall for me? I’m the one they’re looking for, it’s not right-_

“Technoblade?” Tubbo asked, interrupting George’s train of thought. They all turned to Techno. “What do we do?”

* * *

“What do we do?” Theo asked, his eyes big, and earnest, and scared. He turned to the rest of them, their eyes probing him for answers, and _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,_ what do they do? 

He took a deep breath and peered around the corner again. He ignored the elderly woman on her side in the mud, curled in a foetal position, and who was probably her son kneeling next to her. 

Six hunters, concentrated in the centre of town. Not on guard, that was good. There were a few leaning on the opposite house, there was no way they’d be able to get around them and take them out without being noticed. They were armed, at least one was wearing an iron chestplate, and they weren’t here to _skirmish_. If they wanted to get a shot at the Mad King, everyone had to be in one piece, and there was no way that the nine of them would emerge uninjured. The most tactically sound thing to do would be to slink away, find another village or wait until it stops raining to consult the map.

Then again. It didn’t sit right with him. 

Technically, having one less band of hunters wouldn’t exactly be the worst thing. It would allow them to assess the situation, and move on from the village in peace without worrying about being followed. There would be fewer to oppose them once they reached the Mad King’s castle. 

His eyes locked on the shambles of a cleric’s tower a few buildings away. A further glance in that direction revealed horses, all of which bore the insignia of the Mad King. The village was small. There was only one road in and out, and a few alleyways that led out into the wilderness - an easy choke hold to execute. The buildings were low enough that you could get a decent vantage point from high enough up. 

He took another deep breath, and closed his eyes. 

_Tactics. Logic. Psychology._

_They’re pieces on a chess board._ _How do you set them up for success?_

He willed his voice to come out steady. 

“Right,” he said. 

* * *

“Right,” said Technoblade, voice full of steel and resolve, and Clay remembered at once why he was seen as so fearsome. 

“Bad, Tubbo, there’s a ruined cleric’s tower about six hundred yards that way,” he said, making a sharp gesture with his hand, “if you can get on top of it, it should be a decent enough vantage point to pick ‘em off from where they can’t get to you. Two of ‘em have crossbows, so watch out, but we should be keepin’ ‘em busy enough from down here.”

“NotFound, Innit, try and position yourself near the tower. If you can get close enough to their horses to untie ‘em and spook ‘em away, do. If you can’t don’t worry about it. They’ll be headed your way, so be ready to clothes-line ‘em.” 

“Skeppy and Sapnap, you’re on the other entrance to the road. Just keep ‘em contained, try and push them out towards the tower.” 

“Dream, you’re with me. There are two just leaning against this house. When I give the order, we’ll rush ‘em, try and get a couple cheap hits in before they know what’s goin’ on. As soon as we do, all hell’s gonna break loose, so everybody be prepared. We can’t let any of them escape; they’ll tell the Mad King, and then our one advantage over him is as good as gone. Clear? Get to your positions.”

“Techno-“ Nick started, uncertainly, but Techno turned his sharp gaze on him, and he saw Nick wither slightly. 

“Those were orders, _Sapnap_ ,” he said. Nick looked like he wanted to argue, but Clay just shook his head at him. Not the time. 

“Go,” he hissed, and the people started to move off. He watched George spare one glance over his shoulder, and it made something unsettle in his stomach to be so far from him. 

He thought Nick probably felt the same, and that unsettled him more. 

_Dude,_ he told himself, _get a grip_. 

As Bad and Tubbo climbed the rubble of the tower, he strained to listen. _Duckett, Flurry, Gerontian, Allium_ , these were all names he knew, people he had once trained with. They were his age. 

Gerontian had once put him in the infirmary over a poker dispute. But that was less relevant than the other thought niggling the back of his mind.

“Techno,” he whispered, shedding his pack and getting in position, “won’t they…” 

“Recognise you?” he said, casually, and Clay wasn’t sure if that should make him feel better or worse that he’d already considered it. 

Techno glanced over at him, cowl still covering the space his nose should have been, and his eyes creased in a smile. “I’m counting on it.” 

Techno glanced around, down the street, presumably at the ruined cathedral. He turned to Clay and nodded. 

“Go,” he said, and Clay’s heart was in his throat, and he was charging around the corner, desperately hoping Techno knew what he was doing. 

* * *

Dan’s heart was in his throat, and he was charging around the corner, and _oh God it’s not going to work, we’re going to die, we’re both going to die, there’s no way it’s going to work, I’ve killed them all, I've killed them all, I’ve killed them all-_

* * *

Clay’s heart was in his throat, and he was charging around the corner, desperately hoping Techno knew what he was doing. He rounded the corner and got an easy strike in, slicing across the hunter’s upper arm. There were shouts of confusion, the hunter opposite him _(Allium, he recognised distantly)_ drawing her sword, parrying, attacking, and then-

Her eyes widened with recognition. 

“It’s Dream!” she yelled over her shoulder, giving Dream the window to press her further back, getting another good slice in at her armour, the leather straps giving way. He saw in his periphery two of them rush down towards the tower, only for one of them to stumble back under the sudden _thunk_ of a crossbow bolt embedding itself in his-

Whilst he was watching, Allium saw a window, slicing high, aiming for his neck. Clay ducked down, just in time for the blade to scrape across the wood of his mask. She was off balance, now, and he found the moment to dig his sword into her side, thick blood oozing out along the blade, turning pink in the pouring rain. He withdrew his sword and stuck it deep into her, the killing blow, and she collapsed, dead. 

* * *

“It’s Dream!” a hunter yelled, and George felt himself begin to panic. Footsteps in tandem started rushing towards them, one of them faltering under the familiar _twang_ and _thunk_ of a crossbow bolt sticking itself into leather armour. 

Tommy was still in the midst of scaring off the horses, and so George was alone. He steeled himself and stepped out into the street, axe aiming for the neck of the hunter. The hunter’s reflexes were faster, and he just managed to get his arm up in time to protect his neck. The axe struck clean through the leather armour, and George just managed to dodge back out of the way to avoid a swing of his sword. He caught the next sword stroke under his axe, right as another one ran at him and shouldered him out of the way. George rolled as he hit the ground, hearing the sound of a blade embedding itself in the mud, and he kicked out blindly, his foot connecting with something. 

There was a muffled grunt, and he heard the sounds of hooves over the wet ground and the _twang thunk_ of another crossbow bolt sticking itself in someone. 

He scrambled to his feet just as Tommy came dashing out from behind him, vaulting over George to parry a blow meant for him. He got to his feet just in time for the first hunter to gather his bearings again, pull the bloody crossbow bolt from his shoulder, and start attacking with his other hand. 

A short scuffle ensued, and George glanced over the shoulder of his attacker just in time to see Clay pull his sword from a corpse, just in time to see someone rushing up behind him-

“Dream!” he yelled, just barely in time for Clay to look up, glance over his shoulder and block a swing-

* * *

“Dream!” George yelled, and Clay looked up at George _(fighting one of the other hunters, covered in mud, no shield, too close for comfort-_ ), who was staring over his shoulder. He had just enough time to glance over his shoulder and block a swing from Gerontian, slid backwards in the mud, blocked another, and another, just barely avoided tripping over the body of Allium.

He could hear the sounds of crossbows being fired, he heard _someone_ yelp in pain- 

He kept blocking the blows, stumbling over himself, trying to get a hit in-

Gerontian shoved him with his shield and Clay went down, twisting over himself awkwardly, getting his shield up in time to block another swing.

Nick appeared in Clay’s view right at the moment he swung his sword at the hunter, catching him on the arm and sending him staggering sideways. In the seconds between the stumble and Gerontian getting his feet under him, Clay had scrambled to his feet, moved in to kick him to the ground. He sprawled across his back in the mud, and Clay stuck the sword deep into Gerontian’s chest. He glanced up at the corpse slumped against a wall, the faceless hunter lying prone in the mud with crossbow bolts embedded in her armour, the twin battles ongoing between George and Skeppy. They broke away, Nick dashing off to help George, whilst Dream took one step towards where Skeppy was fighting and hissed in pain, legs buckling underneath him, something wrong with his ankle, maybe, hard to tell through the adrenaline, and Skeppy was losing ground-

Techno vaulted over the dying hunter to where Skeppy was, and in one, two, three clean strokes of his sword, dispatched with the last hunter. There was a grunt and a thud from the direction church, and for a few moments, everything was still. 

As Techno wiped the blood from his blade, glancing around himself, there was a blur of movement-

* * *

As Techno wiped the blood from his blade, counting the bodies, he saw a blur. A seventh hunter, armour clinking, sprinted past him, barrelling through Skeppy, away from the cleric’s ruins. He shouted for Bad, and the bolt went wide. 

_Fuck_. 

Techno chased after him but he was exhausted from the fight, and he was losing ground.

He stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled sharply. At first nothing, except the slapping of his feet over the mud, but soon enough he heard the drumming of hooves. Rocket ran up along side him and he grabbed the reins, gracefully swinging up onto Rocket’s back, just barely slowing down. 

The rocking movement of Rocket galloping along shook his cowl loose, and he fell it fall around his neck. 

The hunter turned over his shoulder for just a moment, and stopped. 

His mouth agape. 

His eyes wide. 

He wasn’t running.

Techno was closing the distance between them, and there was recognition in his gaze. 

More than that, there was _fear_. 

_Good,_ Technoblade thought viciously, and didn’t even slow as he leaned down and ran the hunter through, the sword piercing straight through his body. 

The hunter was dead before he hit the ground. 

Techno slowed Rocket to a canter, and then to a walk, breathing heavily. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, and let out a quiet huff of relieved laughter. 

_It worked._

He did his best not to think of the hunter’s corpse on the muddy ground beneath his hooves, eyes still wide open in terror. 

* * *

George was finishing up the dressing on Zak’s arm as Techno came riding back into town, cowl down around his neck, and exhaustion in every line of his body. He glanced over at Zak and nodded once. 

The relief was almost enough to knock him off his feet. 

“You’re good to go,” George said, turning towards where Dream was still slumped against the wall. Zak pushed himself to his feet, and then there was the sound of rubble sliding over rubble. Zak turned his head to see Darryl barrelling towards him, and he had just enough time to brace himself before Darryl collided into him, hands tight on his shoulders. 

“Oh my goodness, are you-“ 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, George took care of it,” Zak said, hands coming up to rest on Darryl’s shoulders, “are you?” 

“Fine, they couldn’t get us from all the way up there,” he said, and a smile stretched its way across his face. He glanced around at the rest of them: Techno bleeding lightly from his side (maybe, it was hard to tell, he was covered in so much blood), Tubbo in one piece, Tommy pressing a bandage to his cheek but lively enough to splash mud in Tubbo’s direction, Dream slumped against a building laughing in that annoying wheezing way of his. 

They were fine. 

They’d _won_. 

Zak’s head sagged with relief, resting on Darryl’s arm for just a few moments before he straightened up again, pulling Darryl into a quick, fierce hug. 

He glanced up again at the village, where some of the locals were braving the weather to survey the area. 

A young man gasped and pointed at Techno, which was a little rude but Zak understood. Techno straightened up in his saddle, eyes wide. 

“Uh…” he started

“It’s…” the man stammered back, “are you…” 

Techno and the man stared at each other for several long minutes. Zak shared a look with Darryl, who just shrugged. 

“The Pig-Nosed Lord?” Zak called out, and felt several sets of eyes swivel towards him. “Yeah.” 

The man put a hand over his open mouth and turned back to Techno, scruffy dark hair plastered to his forehead with the rain. He blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish. 

Zak took pity on him and made his way over, standing next to Techno. 

“It’s hard to believe, I know,” he said, “but it’s real. He’s real. He’s here to liberate the nation.” He nudged Techno’s leg a little, and he glanced down with panic in his eyes. Skeppy nodded encouragingly. 

“Yes,” he said nodding stiffly, “I uh. We are.” 

There were a few moments of stunned silence. Then the man burst into loud, harsh sobs, and he was rushing towards them. Techno’s horse startled back slightly, snorting with what sounded like annoyance. He was clinging to Techno’s leg, sobbing, thanking him with a tear-thick voice. Techno looked at Zak. 

_What do I do?_ he mouthed. 

_Comfort him?_ Zak mouthed back, shrugging. Before either of them could make the situation any worse Darryl intervened, gently prying the man from Techno, saying low comforting things to him. The commotion had attracted several other curious denizens, who were sticking their heads out of their homes to investigate the commotion. The old woman from before braved the rain, surveyed the corpses. 

She picked up the limp, muddy, bloodied arm of one and dropped it. It landed with a wet splatter on the ground. She turned to stare at Techno for a long, long time, and broke out into a toothless grin. 

“The Pig-Nosed Lord has come to liberate the nation!” she cried, and the rest of the village exploded into noise. People cheering, laughing, crying, people surging forward to Techno, people wanting to shake their hands and thank them. It was all overwhelming. 

Zak spared a glance up at Techno, whose hands were both in the vice-like grip of the elderly woman. They made eye contact and Zak spared him an encouraging smile. 

Hesitantly, but undeniably, Techno returned it. 

* * *

Someone had insisted on a celebration, to properly rejoice in the Pig-Nosed Lord’s return, which was how Clay found himself in dry clothes, in a warm corner of a warm room, foot resting up on a chair, and several large mugs of beer in front of him. The centre of the room had been cleared out as a kind of improvised dancing floor, where Tubbo and Tommy were obnoxiously swinging each other around and generally causing havoc to the people around them. Someone was sat on the bar, playing the fiddle, or violin, or something. 

George had taken the liberty of covering his forearm after he’d dressed the ankle, something Clay was absurdly thankful for. 

The people kept smiling at him, thanking him for doing his part to overthrow the Mad King. It was just about all Clay could manage to smile and nod back. 

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the hero treatment. He almost wished they'd chucked him in a dungeon somewhere. That at least would have been familiar.

George hovered next to him, tucked into the corner, making pleasant idle chatter with whoever came and left them drinks. Nick was off in a room with Techno somewhere, pouring over maps, but he’d rejoin them sooner rather than later. 

“Do you wanna dance?” he asked George. George scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“You can’t dance. Even with a healing potion you need to take it easy on the ankle for like, two, maybe three days,” he said into his drink. Clay laughed a little, despite it all. 

“I know! I didn’t mean with _me_!” 

“Then why would I leave you here alone?” George asked, flatly, “Idiot, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who could come out of a fight without any wounds, but with a _sprained ankle._ ” 

“I was pushed! It was muddy and he pushed me!” Clay said defensively, but he knew he was laughing. George grinned at him over his mug. 

“You _twisted_ your _ankle_ in a fight to the death, you’re like a clumsy baby horse-“

“Wow, okay.”

“And you’ve got the face to match.” 

“ _Wow_ ,” Clay said, trying to sound wounded, but he knew he couldn’t hide the fact he was laughing. George laughed back at him and finished his drink. 

George was probably a little drunk. That was okay. So was Clay. 

It always felt kind of like being drunk, coming out of a fight like that, anyway. Something about the adrenaline in your system, or maybe the adrenaline leaving your system. Especially when you came off the better, and nobody was in imminent danger of bleeding to death in your arms. 

But that day felt far away and distant, now. He was pleasantly warm, and his ankle only ached a little, and he was surrounded by people who smiled at him and laughed at his jokes and kept placing drinks in front of him. 

George leaned towards him across the table, nearly knocking over a drink, and Clay’s hand quickly reached out to steady it. He was grinning sharply at Clay. 

“I know your secret, _Dream_ ,” he said, “you only wear the mask to hide the fact that you look like a _horse_ under it.” 

“How would that even work?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink, “you’d be able to see my weird, freaky long face through the mask.” George started laughing, snorting unattractively. 

“It works because I _say_ it works,” he said, leaning further across the table, putting even more drinks in jeopardy. Clay shook his head at him, knowing the mask was doing absolutely nothing to hide his fond smile. 

“Okay, idiot, maybe you’ve had enough,” he said, starting to move some of the drinks towards him. 

“Noooooooo,” George whined into the table, “‘M still _stone cold_ sober.” 

“Okay, then touch your nose.” George propped his head up and confidently touched his nose. 

“Now you then,” George said. Clay carefully put his drink down and reached under his mask to smush his finger against his cheek, just barely touching his nose. George's face lit up in glee as he laughed at him. 

“ _You’re_ drunk!” 

“No I’m not! I touched my nose!” 

  
  
“C-Dream, that was _so_ uncoordinated.” 

“I touched my nose! What do you _want_ from me?” 

Nick sat down on the other side of George and groaned. “Don’t tell me you guys started without me,” he whined. 

“You were gone for _so long_ ,” George said indignantly. 

“I was being helpful!” he said indignantly. He reached for a cup and took a long drink “Now I’ve gotta catch up with you two _lightweights_.” 

“Woah,” George said, leaning back. 

“Okay, we’re not _lightweights_ ,” Clay said, “Which of the three of us always has to get dragged home after we play poker?” 

“Yeah, I drink more-“ 

“Alright, then, how about that time we found your grandpa’s stash, and-“ 

“I was like, fourteen!” Nick said, cutting George off before he could finish the story, “that doesn’t count.” 

“Maybe we should like, vote on it,” Clay said, nudging George. 

“You two are already drunk, and also you both _suck_ ,” Nick said, and downed his drink. They laughed.

The next several hours passed in a blur, drinks appearing in front of them, George standing up to go and get drinks, Nick going to get drinks, Clay sending George with money to get drinks. 

At one point the person playing the violin changed tunes, and George and Nick turned to each other, yelling incoherently and slapping each other on the arms. Nick pulled George to his feet, but George stumbled backwards, looking to Clay like he was asking permission. Clay nodded and gestured for them to go. They stumbled into something that could have maybe been a waltz, or a tango, or something. A bunch of other people started doing the same dance, falling into two rows, taking turns to quickstep a partner up the aisle. It looked well-worn. Practiced. It felt vaguely familiar to him, like something he’d seen once and forgotten all about. 

Clay suddenly felt very, very alone. 

He thought about what had happened the last time he’d drunk. Before he’d gone drinking with George and Nick. He thought it must have been when he’d brought back the corpse of some explosives-maker or something, and there’d been the usual celebrating. He’d drunk with Pandarius, and they’d laughed about something stupid. Later that night Boggle had gotten into a fight with some kid named Frog, and accidentally hit his head very hard against the pavement, and killed him. 

It felt like it had been decades ago. It had probably only been about two years. 

_A lot can change in two years._

“Nice work out there,” said Techno, and Clay had to focus on turning his head towards where he’d sat down. 

“Thanks,” he said, and mentally congratulated himself on not slurring a single-word sentence. “It was a good plan.” 

Techno shrugged modestly. Clay rolled his eyes. 

“Come _on,_ dude, you’ve gotta…” he forgot where he was going with the sentence for a moment, “…take credit when things go right sometimes.” 

“Okay, I guess,” Techno said, and looked at him a little suspiciously, “are you drunk?” 

Clay gestured to the piles of empty mugs surrounding them. “‘m flattered if you think I can drink anywhere _near_ this much and still be like, sober.” 

Techno laughed indulgently. “Let’s just hope nobody else comes looking for their fallen comrades, then.“

“We’re like, ages from the capital,” he said dismissively, “you gotta like…enjoy stuff.” 

“I was kiddin’,” Techno said, and swiped either Nick or George’s drink. “I’m goin’ to bed. Enjoy your evenin’.” 

“You too,” Clay said, and raised his glass. Techno raised his in a silent toast, and made his way out the door into the night. 

Nick and George were back on him, George begging him to take his side in some kind of stupid debate, Nick asking where his drink had gone, and whatever Clay had been thinking about was flushed from his memory. 

* * *

They stumbled across the still-damp ground to the unoccupied house that someone had lent them, Nick supported between the two of them. 

_Lightweight my ass_ , George thought, trying to keep him from tripping over his own two feet. Nick just grumbled unhelpfully, his feet falling out from under him. They all nearly went down, Clay limping along on one bad foot, George smaller and lighter than either of them. 

“Dude,” Clay said, but the rest of whatever he was trying to say was lost under a giggle. George knew that wasn’t going to help matters at all. 

“Shush,” George tried, but the other two had already dissolved into drunken giggles at nothing, and what was worse was that George was biting back giggles of his own. “You’re gonna-“ he choked back a laugh “gonna wake everyone up.” 

“Okay, okay,” Nick managed, got his feet back under him, and heroically made it to the front door of their house without further incident. 

They stumbled through the dark entryway, Clay collapsing in a heap to pull off his remaining shoe, George just barely managing to stay upright. Nick had given up entirely, slumping down against the wall and just trying to toe them off. 

“You’re gonna break ‘em,” Clay said, managing to get his shoe off and tossing it unceremoniously into the corner of the room. 

“I’ll show you broken,” Nick mumbled. 

George couldn’t be bothered to listen to the rest of their drunken ‘banter’, and shuffled through into the living room where their bedrolls had been spread out. He flopped down onto his back on one, willing the room to stop spinning so he could get some decent rest-

There was suddenly a huge weight across his chest, and another over his legs. He struggled against it before realising it was just Clay and Nick. George laughed a little exasperatedly. He gently pushed at Clay’s shoulders. 

“Dude, get off,” he said. Clay just shook his head, sandy hair brushing against his cheek. “The mask is like-“

Clay sat up just enough to wiggle the mask off his face and tossed it across the room, and dug his nose back into the skin of George’s shoulder. He tried to nudge Nick off, but he was a dead weight across his legs. He shifted a little, getting comfortable, his face smushed against one George’s knees and his arm draped across the other. 

“What if I have to like, piss or whatever?” he tried. 

“‘m comfy,” Nick mumbled sleepily, “Just like…piss on me, I guess.”

George started giggling, breathlessly, and felt Clay’s back shaking under his arm, struggling to catch his breath, and then he was laughing, and Nick was laughing, and Clay was laughing warm and loud in his ear. 

By the time they’d quietened down, Nick was very much asleep, snoring loudly from where he lay. Clay was warm and solid against his chest, little puffs of breath warming George’s neck. 

He was absurdly thankful, suddenly, overwhelmingly, that he could have this. That he could lie on his back punch-drunk and fuzzy, with Clay and Nick like this. 

How close they had come to dying. How close they kept coming to dying. It felt like a miracle they were here. Together. Alive and breathing and whole. 

George’s hand drifted up to rest on Clay’s warm, solid, breathing back. The other one ghosted across Nick’s fingers, which twitched slightly in response. 

Clay let out a sleepy grunt.

George lay there, memorising the moment, before eventually drifting gently off himself. 

* * *

“Hope you all slept well,” Techno was saying to a group of half-asleep, mostly hungover young adults. Tommy mumbled a ‘piss off’ at him, even though Techno knew he was just tired. He didn’t want to have to deal with a drunk sixteen year-old, let alone two. He’d payd the guy behind the bar to swap out their drinks for seltzer _all_ night. He laughed a little at himself. 

“Anyway, point being is that the plan’s going to have to change,” he said, and that got everyone sitting up. Even Sapnap, who looked like the only thing he wanted in the world was to be horizontal, had the decency to look surprised by the change. 

They were crammed into a backroom of the tavern, map spread out on the table in front of him. It was warm, and dry, and there was just enough space for them all if they squeezed in, which was uncomfortable but they’d make do. 

_He could still smell the beer on Zak’s breath, even from here_. 

“I’d say we probably have about five days before people start getting suspicious,” he said, “sooner or later people are gonna come looking for the hunters that were here. Along the main road, it’d take us about a week to get to the capital-“

“Not enough time to get there without someone raising the alarm, then,” Tommy finished for him. Techno shook his head. 

“Not to mention what a group of eight armed guys on horseback would look like to even the dumbest manhunter,” he said, and a little hum of self-conscious laughter bubbled up from the group. 

“Point being is we’re gonna have to split up and travel on foot,” he said. “Here we are at the Village of Ravengrave. I’ll go with Tubbo and Innit, we’re headed down south through Cavecross, out pretty much exactly due south until we reach the outskirts of the capitol. Skeppy and Bad, you two are going to go out along the Wolfbluff, plenty of sand and wide open spaces to gather your supplies, right?” 

“Yeah,” Skeppy confirmed. 

“Perfect. Once you hit these foothills, strike out West until you reach this lake. That’s where we’ll be. That just leaves NotFound, Sapnap, Dream. You three are takin’ a slightly more windin’ path, through the Faywall forest, up through the neighbouring birch forest, and then head south-east once you reach these plains. That should bring you to that same lake, where we’ll regroup and go ahead with the rest of the plan as usual.” 

“Me and the two others should get there first. I think it should take us about two weeks. We’ll wait there seven days and if you’re not there, we’re assuming something’s happened. We won’t be able to come lookin’ for you.” 

He took a deep breath, more to steady himself than anything else. 

“If it takes you more than three weeks to get there, we’re assumin’ you’ve died. Don't take more than three weeks.” 

There was a heavy, heavy weight in the room. 

“Um,” Tubbo said, hesitantly, “shouldn’t it take less than fourteen days? Even if we’re taking a slightly longer route?” 

“We’re travelling on foot,” Techno said, and saying it brought him no small misery. “We’re leaving the horses here, in their stable. We’ll come get ‘em on the way back.” 

Skeppy was giving Techno that weird, knowing look he got in his eye sometimes. 

“It’s easier to keep a low profile if you’re on foot, and some of this terrain ain’t gonna be passable for the horses." But at this point, he was really convincing himself more than anyone else. "We’re walkin’. Any other questions?” 

“How’d you pick the groups?” Skeppy asked, and Techno rolled his eyes. 

“Random lots,” he lied, “anyone have any real questions?” 

“Mine was a real question!” he said defensively. 

“Zak, I swear to God,” Dan started, and then abruptly cut himself off. 

He was met by a satisfying silence after that. 

“Great. We’ll head out at nightfall. That gives us a day to get our affairs in order. George, if you could make and distribute some healin’ potions?” 

“Sure,” George said, pretending he wasn’t extremely hungover. 

“Great,” he said. Nobody moved. “Uh. Meeting adjourned?” 

They slowly but surely began to filter out of the room. Techno took a deep breath, rolled up the map, and walked out of the building. He went over to where Rocket was tacked up, calmly swishing his tail to keep the flies off him. He nickered at him in greeting. 

“Hey boy,” Dan said, stroking a hand over Rocket’s neck, “come on.” 

He led Rocket over to the stables, which were blessedly empty. He took off the well-loved, blessedly nondescript saddle, and went hunting for a set of brushes. By the time he’d come back, Rocket was helping himself to the feed piled up in the corner. He lifted up one of Rocket’s hooves and started to pick the mud out from it. 

“What a good, patient horse you are,” he said. “I see why all the other horses think you’re the leader.” 

Rocket didn’t have anything to say about that. 

“I’ve gotta leave you here, just for a bit,” he was saying, and rolled his eyes at how sappy he sounded to his own ears, “I’ll come back for you. Promise. You’ll be safer here anyway.” 

He moved on to the next hoof, scraping out the caked in mud. Rocket snorted a little. “I know. You’re the bravest horse I ever met. I’m sure you’d be invaluable in the fight against the Mad King, but you’re too obvious. Everyone takes one look at you and thinks what a handsome horse you are, and never forgets you. You’d give the game away. 

Rocket snorted again, and shook his head a little. Dan rolled his eyes, moving down to another hoof. “Okay, I know, but at least I can cover it with a scarf.” 

“He is a very handsome horse,” said someone, and Dan nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked up to where a stablehand was stood, leaning against the gate.

“Uh…thanks,” he said. She just nodded. 

“I can…do that for you if you want,” she offered, then hastily added, “uh, my Lord.”

Dan shook his head. “Don’t. You don’t have to call me that. Or groom him.” He set the hoof back down and moved onto the next. “My parents kept a stable. It’s nice to do familiar work. Sometimes.” 

“Well, maybe we can switch jobs,” she said, and Dan snorted. _Maybe_. 

There was silence apart from the sound of Rocket chewing on some wheat. 

“He trusts you a lot,” said the stablehand. Dan nodded. 

“He’s a good horse.” 

“But you also must be a good rider,” she said, and Dan shrugged. 

“I mean it. Horses kind of…amplify? Whatever energy you give out,” she said, and pushed off from the gate. “You’re all calm around him. Steady. Strong. It makes him calm and steady and strong too.” Dan looked up at her, trying to work out what it is she was trying to say. She shrugged. “Just something my uncle’s always saying.” 

“He sounds like he knows a lot about…uh…horses,” Dan said, feeling intensely awkward. She laughed a little. 

“Yeah.” 

She left them alone, after that, but Techno didn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.

In the evening, he watched the groups assemble. George had made and distributed the healing potions earlier that day, and they were all properly stocked up. 

He took one last long look at his friends, advisors, whatever. Assembled. 

He hoped it wouldn't be for the last time. 

"See you on the other side," he said, and nodded his head. Tubbo and Tommy fell in step behind him, and he tried not to focus too much on the sounds of retreating footsteps around him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about horses I learned from Breath of the Wild but I DID look it up and you CAN train a horse to come when you whistle so.


	3. Intermission

Wilbur sat at Techno’s desk, head in his hands, pouring over his almost illegible scrawl. 

“Paranoid bastard,” he mumbled to himself. 

“It works?” Phill said, from his position on the floor, papers spread out in front of him, “if _we_ can barely crack the code, there’s no way the enemy is going to understand it.” 

“If we’re at the point that ‘the enemy’ is in his room reading his notebooks, we’ve got bigger things to worry about than them cracking the code,” Wilbur scoffed. He rubbed at his eyes and sighed. 

“The crown weighs heavy, doesn’t it?” Phill asked, and Wilbur turned to glare at him. He was grinning cheekily. Wilbur flicked a crumpled up bit of paper at him, and Phill cackled.

“Why was he doing all this _himself_ ,” Wilbur said, exasperated. He picked up some kind of table. New hires or something. “We’re meant to be his advisors, aren’t we?” 

“Yes.” 

“So why wouldn’t he let us _advise_ him on anything?” Wilbur squinted at the chart. “This is _full_ of errors. Stubborn bastard. If he’d-” 

“What is?” Phill asked, interrupting Wilbur's rant. 

“This…new hires list, or something,” he said bringing it closer to the lantern that lit the room.

“What’s wrong with it?” Phill got to his feet and loomed over Wilbur’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. 

Wilbur pointed. “He’s put down two scribes, I think. There’s Brynn, and then there’s someone called Ehlonna. What a weird, made-up name. Or he just sucks at spelling, like he sucks at everything else. Shouldn’t it be spelled E-“

“I’ve never heard of an Ehlonna,” Phill said, eyebrows still furrowed. 

“That’s what _I’m_ saying, why is…” Wilbur trailed off. 

Why _was_ it written down? 

Dan was many things. He was not careless. But anyone with the workload that he gave himself might let something slip through the cracks. Something like following up on who was in his castle. Something like searching for one wayward scribe in amongst the fifty or so denizens who inhabited his halls from day to day. 

Wilbur scoffed to himself. “The paranoia’s rubbing off on me. Probably just some clerical error.” 

Phill laughed as well, returning to his position on the floor. 

They sat in silence for a bit. 

“Probably best to check, though, right?” Wilbur said. Phill nodded. 

“Yes. There’s not much else to do except wait for them to…get back,” Phill said carefully. 

“Yeah, we can do him a couple of favours in the mean time,” Wilbur said, folding up the piece of paper and tucking it into his coat. “Like sorting out what I’m confident is a-“ 

He glanced down at the next sheet of paper. Someone named Ehlonna had requested two weeks off to ‘visit family’. 

“-minor clerical error,” he said. He glanced back down at Phill. They shared a long look. 

“Well,” Phill said, loudly, “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too long- you’ll hurt your eyes.” 

Wilbur rolled his eyes, “whatever, _Dad_.” 

Phill thumped him on the shoulder. He grabbed his sword on the way out. 

Wilbur looked back down at the sheet of paper. He denied the request. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, you can find me on twitter, https://www.twitter.com/SnakeHognose, for dumb tweets and me contributing absolutely nothing to mcyttwt 
> 
> 🐍Snakey Love 🐍
> 
> Hiss Hiss


	4. In the Forest of Faywall // The Ravine of Cavecross // The Plains of Wolfbluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that stood between them and the Mad King was two weeks of long, quiet, uneventful travel through the wilderness beyond the reaches of the capital. 
> 
> Or at least, that would be the case if everything went according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAA IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S HERE
> 
> Sorry it took so long! Writer's block + school + the fact that this chapter is like 13k long meant that this took way longer than I had hoped to write, but here it is! Thanks so much for your patience! :) 
> 
> Please do take note of the CWs for this chapter, because I feel like there is some potentially very triggering stuff in this chapter. If you need more detail about any of these, I have a spoiler thread up on my twitter (twitter.com/SnakeHognose). Please do check it if you're sensitive to any of the following: 
> 
> CW: Spiders (major CW for spiders), gore, mild body horror, mild nightmares, graphic depictions of violence, I feel like I should put in a second one for gore just to emphasise the gore, minor character death, grief and grieving (major CW for grief and grieving), vomit. They also go swimming, and I’ll chuck in a minor claustrophobia warning as well just in case.

The going was muddy ( _good for tracking your quarry; footprints appeared easier, they’d be slowed down by the mud_ ), as they forged their way through the forest. Nick in front, picking his way through the underbrush, glancing down at the compass he had strapped to the inside of his wrist every few hours. Clay was at the back, keeping an ear out for any noises that might signal something coming for them.  George was sandwiched between the two of them, one hand resting on the handle of his axe. 

It felt familiar, but the stakes seemed higher. People had been looking for them last time, too, but it hadn’t seemed to matter. Nobody would have missed him, except for Pandarius, maybe. Now it mattered. He had a cat to feed, and friends to protect, and an old lady who ran the butcher shop who would notice when he was gone. 

If they didn’t take down the Mad King- 

It wasn’t worth thinking about. They’d do it. 

They just had to be smart about it. 

The days went by with little rain and not much talk, aside from whispered conversations around the low glow of campfire embers. They couldn’t have a proper fire. The smoke would put even more of a target on their backs than they already had. They slept in shifts, and walked in silence, and Clay hated every necessary second of it. 

The air was cold, and his breath was steaming out in front of him. They were still in the late days of winter, the lakes they came across too cold to do much of anything in except dab the dirt out of their clothes. He had resigned himself to whole journey being freezing cold; no fires, no cooking, all they had were their thick winter coats and whatever blankets they could manage to scrounge up prior to the journey. 

On their third day of travelling through the Faywall forest, Nick had shimmied his way up a tree to try and get a better vantage point, to scope out the surrounding area and see what there was to see. When he’d slid back down, there was light in his eyes. 

“Volcanic fissure up ahead,” he’d said, slinging his pack back over his shoulder, “and a little lake just by it.” 

“Okay?” George said, slightly bemused, but Clay had already perked up, because _holy shit,_ _warm water, water we can bathe in, water we can wash the mud out of our clothes with, hot water, warm water-_

“Where?” 

“Like, half a mile off that way,” Nick said, and gestured vaguely off to the left. “It’s like, kinda off course, but-“ 

“Race you there,” Clay said, and took off sprinting in the direction Nick had pointed. It was noisy, and startled small woodland creatures out of the way, and he didn’t care. He could hear Nick behind him, vaulting over the fallen trees, yelling at him for cheating, George a little ways back asking what it was they were running for. Laughter bubbled up in his chest, bright and cheerful. It felt good to be using his body again. It felt good to do things that were _fun_ again. He only had a vague idea of where he was headed but it didn’t matter. The change in temperature was palpable, and he was able to spare half a glance at the slightly scorched tree trunks as he flew past them.

He burst into a clearing, seeing the low orange glow of some shallow lava stream, and the thick line of glassy obsidian that separated it from a small lake, little tendrils of steam rising up from it. He started shedding his pack as he went, struggling out of his boots, tripping and stumbling over his own two feet before managing to kick them off, remembering at the last minute to shrug out of his coat and wriggle out of his shirt and kick out of his trousers. He was in his boxers by the time he was at the water’s edge. 

He knew, logically, that he should probably check the temperature of the spring, to make sure he wouldn’t immediately develop hypothermia, or even just to double check how deep the waters were. 

But it was a race, after all. 

He couldn’t just give up his lead for something stupid like that. 

He jumped feet first into the water and felt it swallow him up, deep enough that his head was under the water, the sweat and grime and mud sluicing off his body. It was warm enough, not quite hot, just enough to be a pleasant respite from the late winter morning they’d been tramping through. 

Beneath the water, the world was soft and muted. 

Someone was calling for him, and he broke the surface, pulling his mask off and shaking the water out of his hair like a dog. Nick and George were standing at the edge of the water, looking down at him anxiously. 

He grinned up at them obnoxiously. “Losers.” 

“I was only, like, three seconds behind you,” Nick said defensively, and started taking off his leather jacket, “And George was behind me, so he's the real loser.” 

“You’re both so stupid,” George grumbled, and sat down to start taking off his shoes. He paused, dipping a couple fingers into the lukewarm water, before continuing.

"You're both so loser," Clay grinned. 

“No, I came in _second_ place, loser,” Nick said. 

“Second place is just the first loser, loser,” Clay grinned, and kicked his way closer. He rested his arms on the smooth, warm stone that circled the pool, one hand over the other, and rested his chin on them. 

“Says the guy who’s gonna have to get out and pick up all his stuff,” Nick shot back, nodding towards the trail of clothes and shoes and bags he had left in his wake. Clay waved a hand dismissively. 

“All worth it to beat you two losers.” George rolled his eyes and flicked some water in Clay’s face. He sputtered a little, laughing, and flicked a little water back in his direction. 

“Is it deep?” Nick asked, undoing his belt. Clay nodded. 

“I’d guess like, eight feet? Maybe nine?” 

“Not _that_ deep,” Nick said, sitting on the edge of the water. Clay scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, tough guy,” he said as Nick launched himself into the water, “deep enough for our tiny, short, small, precious-“

“I _hate_ you guys,” George said, kicking water into Clay’s face. He laughed and pushed himself away, treading water. A thought struck him.

“You guys can both swim, right?” he asked, as George lowered himself down into the spring.

“Duh,” Nick said. 

“Idiot.”

“I was just asking!” Clay said defensively. 

“You were asking right _as_ we got into the large body of water,” George said. 

“I was just asking, leave me alone,” Clay said, trying to hide the fact that he was laughing.

“What would you have done if we had said ‘no’, though? We were both already in the water. Like, ‘oh, yeah, I can’t swim, gurgle gurgle’, and we would have drowned before you could have done anything. But that’s just the kind of great thinking and pre-planning the Mad King trains his-hey!” George said, wiping at the side of his face. 

Clay laughed and sunk back down under the water, getting another mouthful of water and spitting it right at George’s face. Nick was laughing too, leaning one arm on the rocky bank and ducking back out of the way of George’s kicks. 

“You’re disgusting, oh my _god_ ,” George said, and splashed some water back at Clay’s face, “you’re gonna get sick, who knows how many-“ he was cut off right as Nick spat a stream of water into the side of his face, dissolving into giggles from his corner of the spring. 

“Fuck you guys, I’m going home,” George said, and went so far as to plant his hands on the side of the bank and starting to leverage himself up and out of the water. 

“No!” Clay whined, pushing himself off the opposite wall and wrapping his arms tightly around George’s waist, “Georgie-“ 

“Don’t call me _Georgie_ , I’m not _five-“_

_“Georgie_ , don’t go,” he wailed melodramatically, “you _love_ us, you can’t _leave_ -“ 

“Get _off_ , Clay!” George said, and he sounded annoyed, but Clay could hear the laughter shaking deep in his chest, “You’re so fat, oh my God.” 

George started to wriggle and kick erratically, trying to slide out of Clay’s grip, but he held tightly, whinging and wailing the whole time. 

He saw Nick move in his peripheral vision, quick and shark-like, and he wedged himself between George and the wall of the spring, planting both his feet against the wall and kicking back, sending all three of them back down into the water. George emerged spluttering, laughing, and Clay was wiping the water from his eyes, and Nick was laughing almost too hard to keep himself afloat. 

George kicked some water in Nick’s face, and Clay launched himself at him, getting him in a headlock and grinding his knuckles into Nick’s scalp, laughing and yelling for him to ‘tap out, tap out’. Nick managed a kick right at his shins, and Clay let go, leaning against the bank and laughing. 

They were loud, and unarmed, and completely vulnerable to anyone who might have come along and seen them. 

And they didn’t care. 

After a while, Clay reluctantly pulled himself out of the water, and wandered back along the way he had come, shivering and picking up his stuff. He glanced over his shoulder at one point to see that Nick was holding George’s head under the water, not letting him come up for air. He paused, watching, watching, watching-

Nick let him up, and George surfaced, spluttering and coughing a little. Nick laughed and let George punch him on the shoulder. 

Clay relaxed, and felt his hand slip off the hilt of his sword.

He hadn’t noticed that he’d put it there. 

The last time he’d found a volcanic spring had been with Pandarius and some girl called Cobweb. They’d been on a patrol, tracking a fake quarry through the mountains that stood to the East of the capital. It had been freezing, and they had been sweaty. They’d stumbled across it on accident and had decided to bed down for the night, and taken the opportunity to wash up. 

Cobweb had been on Pandarius’s case all week, and had come weirdly close to drowning him as they’d crouched in that much shallower spring. He’d had to pull her off and threaten her with violence before she’d gotten the picture. 

Pandarius had just smiled thinly at him. He had always been an anxious hunter. Really good at tracking, staying unnoticed, and hadn’t been a total power-hungry madman like so many of them. They’d been friendly, but not close. He had no idea what Pandarius’s real name was, or where he’d come from. Pandarius had never asked him, either. It was easier that way, he’d thought. He’d changed his mind after he met George, and sat on the freezing floor of a dead man’s house, and cried and cried and cried until he felt lighter than he had in years. 

It had been years since he’d last seen him. Pandarius had been sent to go hunt down an alleged rebel in the South-Eastern Badlands. He still hadn’t returned by the time the Mad King had called in Dream and sent him to kill the lone survivor of Windhallow. Some guy named George. Didn’t matter.

He sometimes wondered where Pandarius was, these days. 

He snapped out of his reverie and looked down at the coat he was gripping tightly in his hands. He hadn’t noticed he’d been doing that, either. He smoothed it out and slung it over his shoulder, picking up the rest of his stuff. 

There was something rustling in the bushes. He paused, turning his head towards the sound, and glancing around the forest. It was still. Quiet. A bird took off, somewhere in the forest, and he relaxed a little. 

“Clay!” George yelled, and Clay’s head shot up. George was leaning over the side of the spring. “What are you even _doing,_ aren’t you like, freezing?” 

Clay noticed his hands shaking a little. 

“Just thinking about how dumb you are,” he shot back. George rolled his eyes. 

“Ouch,” he said dryly, and that coaxed a little laugh out of Clay. He turned away for a moment to talk to Nick. _Guard down._

Clay dropped all his stuff in a heap by the pool and jumped in, scrunching his body up and landing with an enormous, obnoxious splash, the water hitting the nearby lava and hissing and spitting and steaming loudly. George let out a strangled yelp of surprise and Nick was spitting up mouthfuls of water. 

Clay laughed and forgot about whatever he’d been worried about before. 

* * *

That night, after they’d washed their clothes and dried off, they’d set up camp away from the spring. The night was dark, lit only by the low glow of embers from their mostly-dead fire. 

It was a cold, cloudless night, and Clay was looking up at the scattered stars. George and Nick had pointed out constellations to him countless times but he couldn’t ever remember any. He always liked to draw his own. 

He spared a glance at the moon, where it was rising high in the sky. Probably time to change shifts. 

He looked down at George and Nick, who were both rugged up against the evening chill. Nick had one arm out, hanging off his bedroll, brushing against the fabric of George’s blanket. The top of George’s head was the only thing visible, the rest of him buried underneath thick blankets. 

Part of Clay wanted to just let them sleep. But he was tired, his eyes itched with exhaustion, his vision was starting to go weird around the edges. He got up and stretched his back out before crouching down next to George and putting a hand on what he hoped was his shoulder. 

“George,” he mumbled, shaking him a little. George gave a muffled sleepy snuffle from the depths of his blankets. Clay shook him a little more violently and said, louder, “George, come on, wake up.”

He didn’t need to worry about waking Nick. Nick slept like the dead. He’d been asleep on their sofa once, after a long night out, when Patches had somehow gotten herself onto the shelf where they stored their pots and pans. She’d knocked every single one up, yowling plaintively when she found she couldn’t get down. George and Clay had sprinted down stairs to find Patches crying on a shelf, their pans scattered across the stone floor, and Nick still snoring on the sofa. 

One sleepy eye peered out at Clay from the blankets. “Mmpff,” he said, and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Clay laughed a little. 

“Come on. It’s your shift,” Clay said, and started to roll out his sleeping mat between George and Nick, nudging Nick’s arm out of the way. He didn’t even stir. George gave another sleepy grumble but sat ups rubbing at his face and reaching for his thick blue coat. 

Clay took his coat off and pulled it over himself, followed by the thick blanket he’d been lugging around all day. He settled himself on his back, mask in arm’s reach just in case something happened in the night. 

Nick grumbled a little and shifted, his one freezing arm bumping against Clay’s shoulder. Clay laughed quietly and shared a look with George, who just shook his head fondly. Clay draped the blanket over Nick’s hand and patting it gently. 

“Oh my God,” he said, glancing over at George, “it’s like _ice_.” George laughed and rolled his eyes. 

“He’s a disaster,” he whispered back, and settled against a tree. “Goodnight.” 

“Night.” Clay said, as Nick’s hand settled more comfortably against his shoulder. He closed his eyes and waited, hoping to quickly drop off to sleep between the low rumble of Nick’s snores and the distant chirping of a cricket. 

He lay there awake anyway. 

On nights like this it was too easy to remember being alone in the dungeons of the Pig Nosed Lord, convinced George was dead. He could still feel the blood soaking through his hands. He’d never tell him, but he stayed awake late at night sometimes, when he was supposed to be asleep, slumped outside George’s bedroom door listening to him breathe. 

He cracked one eye open and tilted his head to the right, watching George rub sleep from his eyes.

Even now, even when they were out in the wilderness and George was on watch, the nights he lay exhausted and waited for a rest that never came, he would keep George in his periphery. He’d watch the easy rise and fall of George’s breathing, and the way he slouched comfortably back against a tree trunk, and the way he’d cover his yawns with the back of his hand. He’d keep glancing down to where the scar he knew was over George’s stomach was, half expecting George’s clothes to be soaked through with blood. 

He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t help but feel like the moment he closed his eyes George would drop dead. 

George tugged his shirt down a little, and drummed his fingers against the leather of his trousers. 

The rhythmic thumping was enough, a reminder that George was still breathing, and somewhere between one beat and the next, he was asleep.

* * *

* * *

After a day of skirting along through the forest, they’d reached the edge of the Cavecross Ravine. 

It was massive, and deep, and cut neatly through what was likely a heavily patrolled birch forest. People didn’t tend to use it as a path; too many spiders and skeletons and monsters lurked in its dark depths. 

They were armed, though, and armoured, and Techno was confident they’d be able to pick their way through whatever lurked in the ravine. There were webs everywhere, eight glowing eyes watching them from the shadows as they made their way over the rocky floor of the ravine. In the night they’d find a side-cave to bed down in, and in the morning they would continue along the ravine. 

The first time they’d had trouble with the spiders had been on the second day. They’d crawled out of a crack in the ground, and Techno had just enough time to work out a plan before he was barking out directions and blocking attacks from the thick, hairy legs.

They’d been fine. When it was all said and done Techno was catching his breath over the curled-up corpse of a spider and trying not to think about the fact that he was leading two sixteen year olds through a cave full of monsters, whilst Tommy chased Tubbo in circles with a thick spiderweb stretched between his fingers.

_God, they’re young,_ Techno had thought as he pulled his sword from the dripping guts of a spider, and it made him feel vaguely sick.

* * *

“This one will do,” Techno said, on the evening of the fourth day. A cursory glance revealed an absence of both spider webs and desiccated corpses, even if it was a little damp. 

“Home sweet home,” Tommy said, and Techno rolled his eyes. 

“It’ll be nice and cozy once you get a fire going,” he said, settling down against one of the cave walls. 

“ _Me_?” 

“Yeah, you,’ Techno said, “It’s your turn.” 

The shadows lengthened as the sun set, and the temperature started to dip into just this side of too cold. The smoke would dissipate enough that it wouldn’t be a giveaway of their location, and was fairly necessary besides. 

Techno had thought about it obsessively from most angles. “Chop chop, Innit.” 

“Ugh,” Tommy grumbled, but shrugged off his pack to set up a little pile of sticks anyway, “just cause you’re scared of the dark. 

“These caves _are_ pretty spooky,” Theo said self-consciously. Tommy looked up from where he’d been setting up a fire, that look in his eyes that told Techno he was up to trouble. 

“You’re right,” he said, eyes wide and excited, “it’s the _perfect_ place to tell ghost stories.”

“Okay,” Theo said, laughing a little nervously, “okay! Go on.” 

“Yeah, just give me a second to think…” Tommy trailed off. “Well, there’s that one about the Pig-Nosed Lord-“ 

He stopped abruptly as Techno aimed a kick at him. He laughed.

“Not a ghost,” he grumbled, and pulled out his sword and whetstone. If they were going to be dumb he could at least do something productive. 

Tommy then launched into a convoluted and poorly told story about some girl who drowned in a well, and lures other people into other wells. 

“You saw her?” Theo asked, scandalous glee in his voice. Tommy nodded excitedly. 

“Woah.” 

_God, they’re young_.

“Okay,” Tommy said, “Your turn. Tell us a ghost story.” Theo blinked owlishly at Tommy across the pile of sticks that Tommy was setting up. 

“Uh….oh! Wilbur told me he had a, uh, a twin that died,” Theo said, “and now it’s haunting him.” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Tommy said, “He told me that too, and I _saw_ it, this one time-“ 

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me,” Techno muttered under his breath. 

“Come on, then, Techno,” Tommy said, eyes shining with excitement, “tell us a ghost story, since ours suck so much.” 

“What?” He snorted, looking up from his sword, “no.” 

He was supposed to be strong, he was supposed to be serious, he was supposed to be trustworthy, he was supposed to be focused on getting them out alive. 

“ _Please_?” Theo begged, “come _on_ , it’s boring in here, there’s nothing to look at or _anything_.”

“Isn’t it your job as our fearless leader to keep our morale-“ Tommy started.

“It’s not my job as your ‘fearless leader’,” Techno said, “to scare you so bad neither of you can sleep.” 

“Oh, now _that_ sounds like confidence,” Tommy said, grinning, “if only you could back up all that talk with some actual results.” 

“He probably doesn’t even _have_ any good ghost stories,” Theo said.  
  


“Definitely.” 

They were giggling to themselves, shooting conspiratorial smiles across the fire. Young and lanky and totally unafraid, just trying to keep their minds off the damp caves they’d been sleeping in for days.

If Dan thought about where they were for too long he wanted to throw up. He had no idea where Zak and Darryl were, if Clay or George or Nick were dead yet. He dreamed about it at night, arriving at the lake alone and waiting, waiting, waiting for backup that never came.

Theo and Tommy didn’t think about it. Or maybe they did, and they just wanted to think about something else. Come up with fake monsters to distract from the real ones they were on their way to kill. He had to keep his eyes on the real monsters, after all, he was the one wearing the crown-

But he wasn’t wearing the crown, now. Maybe he could have this, maybe he could have half an hour where he didn’t have to be responsible for every moment of their days.

“You’re just trying to wind me up,” Dan said, going back to sharpening his sword, “it’s not workin’.” 

He let the silence hang in the air for a few seconds, swallowing down his smirk. 

“Besides, it’s better if we keep quiet anyway. I think the Warden lives around these parts.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Theo glance over at him, and saw Tommy’s eyes narrow. Not quite hook line and sinker, yet. He’d have to work for it. 

“Who?” Theo asked. 

“The Warden,” Dan said, fighting to keep his voice flat and natural, like he was discussing the weather. 

“Who’s that?” Theo asked, and there was the high sharp edge of anxiety in his voice. That was usually a cause for concern, but it was fine. It wasn’t about anything real this time. He paused the sharpening of his sword and looked up slowly, keeping his eyes guarded, slightly confused. 

“You guys never heard of the Warden?” 

“No…” Theo said, glancing over at Tommy. Tommy still had his eyes narrowed in Dan’s direction. Suspicious, but not outright disbelieving. He could work with that.

Dan raised his eyebrows and went back to sharpening his sword. “Some kinda creature,” he said dismissively, “lives in ravines like this.” 

“What is he?” Tommy asked. Good. He was rising to the bait a little. Just had to be sure not to pull in too quickly. 

“Nobody really knows,” Dan said airily. “Some people reckon it was some kinda automaton. Story goes that there was a Witch in the swamp just south of here, experimentin’ with new kinds of stuff to make a simulacrum.” 

“Like what?”

“Hard to say. A variety of things. Stone, gold, lapis.” He paused and glanced up. “Flesh.” 

Theo’s eyes were wide, his mouth pulled down into a grimace. 

“Flesh?” Tommy asked skeptically. 

Dan nodded once. 

“Why?” 

“To see if she could?” Dan shrugged. “I didn’t make it, don’t ask me.” 

“Okay…but then why is it… _here_?” Theo asked, and he was fiddling with his sleeve a little. Dan had him. Now he just had to get Tommy. 

“Turns out it was real sensitive to sunlight, loud noises, stuff like that,” Dan said, sheathing his sword. “It’d fly into a rage, kill anything around it. She couldn’t control it, liability like that, and so she dragged it down south and left it in a ravine.”

“She left her life’s work in a…ravine,” Tommy said. Dan nodded. 

“I heard travellers talk about it, in my parent’s stable,” he said, “folks who went missin’, only for their bodies to turn up with teeth marks. Not like, a dog, or a fox, but _human_ teeth.” 

Tommy was doing that thing where he was trying to pretend it wasn’t getting him, but the image of half-eaten corpses had clearly gotten to him, to the point where he was forgetting to feed the fire. Perfect. 

“It’s hungry,” Dan said conspiratorially, leaning closer in the gathering dark, “and _mad_ , and has very sensitive ears. It can’t stand bright light, though, so-“ he paused, tilting his head slightly. “Did you guys hear that?” 

“Hear what?” Tommy asked icily. Dan squinted his eyes, pretending to listen, and then shook his head. 

“Probably nothing,” he said dismissively. “Where was I?” 

“Hungry,” Theo choked out, and now Dan felt a _little_ bad. 

“Right. It’s hungry. There’s nothin’ else to hunt down here so he hunts travellers. You hear him comin’, the sound of rocks hittin’ rocks.” He shifted his foot just a little, just enough to send a couple rocks cascading down into the ravine. The fire had eaten through most of their firewood. Theo and Tommy jumped as the stones hit the ravine. 

“But it can’t stand bright light,” Dan said, his voice low, “so once he’s heard you, gotten an idea of where he is, he’ll come and put your fire out, then pick you off, one by one.” 

“How does he put the fire out?” Theo asked, his voice just barely above a whisper. 

“Nobody knows,” Dan said, “but I’ve got a theory. Corpses with bite marks in ‘em? The Warden must have a big mouth. I reckon all he’s gotta do is get close enough to the fire…and blow.” 

He couldn’t have asked for better timing. Just then, a gentle breeze picked up and snuffed out the last flickering flames of their fire. They both screamed bloody murder, and Dan had to drop the act. He burst into laughter, falling on his back, as he heard Tommy desperately trying to relight the fire. 

The cave was bathed in a warm orange glow, and Dan couldn’t stop laughing, flat on his back, tears pooling in the corner of his eye. Someone was smacking him, complaining about how he was a total asshole, and by the time the dust settled Theo was getting colour back in his face and Tommy was glowering down at the fire, his face red. 

“Sorry,” Dan said, wiping his face and chucking a log onto the fire, “you asked for it, though.” 

“That was a _monster_ story,” Tommy said, “not a _ghost_ story.” 

“Y-yeah,” Theo said, nodding his head, “so…it doesn’t count.” 

“Yeah,” Tommy said, looking less upset, “yeah, so… we still win.” 

“Okay, okay,” Dan said magnanimously, shifting a little closer so he could muss at Tommy’s hair. “I’ll cede the point.” 

They sat in silence for a bit, then Theo laughed a little.

“It was a pretty good story, though,” he said, glancing over at Dan. 

“Thanks,” he said. “All lies someone told me when I was like, ten.” 

“At least the Ghost Wilbur story was real,” Tommy said. 

“ _Don’t_ tell me you really believed Wilbur has the ghost of his dead twin hauntin’ him,” Dan said despairingly, “he tried that on me when we were like five and I _still_ didn’t believe him.” 

“I’ve seen it,” Tommy was trying, “It-“

“Looked like Wilbur with chalk all over his face?” Dan said, and Tommy shut up, “Oldest trick in the book, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid!” 

“Yeah you are,” Theo said. 

“Wh-We’re the _same_ age!” 

“No, I’m four months older.”

“Okay, but I’m taller.”

“You are _not-“_

Dan shut his eyes and let them argue, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam, and feeling tension leave his shoulders that he hadn’t even noticed was there. 

* * *

* * *

_“I don’t know about this, Zak,” Darryl was saying, and he nudged his cracking glasses further up his nose, “they all seem pretty…uh…”_

_“Aw, come on! We’ll make it!” Zak said, grinning widely at him, “We have to at least try, right?”_

_They’d walked for a day and a half to get to the Capital, and he felt the buzz and thrum of excitement under his skin. Filing into the castle were dozens of other kids their age, some armed, some not, all gangly and wiry._

_“If we get in, we’ll be made for life, Darryl,” Zak said, and grabbed his hand, “the softest beds, hot meals, it’ll be great. All we have to do is beat up one of these other losers.”_

_“Zak!” Darryl laughed, “that’s not-“_

_“Don’t talk about being_ nice _to me, Darryl,” Zak said, rolling his eyes and grinning, “we’re gonna be_ manhunters _.”_

_He was walking through the double doors with Darryl stuck to his hip._

_He was wrestling a whiny ten-year-old into the dirt._

_He was brought through into the hall with a bunch of other kids his age._

_He was looking for Darryl._

_He was looking for Darryl._

_He was looking for Darryl-_

“Hey, Zak,” Darryl said, and something was nudging his shoulder, “come on, wake up.” 

His eyes snapped open against the blinding glare of the sun. He slammed them shut again, groaning, and rolled over onto his other side. He blinked up at Darryl who was leaning back on his elbows, smiling over at him. They’d been friends a long time, though, and he could see the hard edges of worry around his eyes. 

“Ugh,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “g'morning.” 

“Good morning to you too, cheery Charlie,” Darryl said, laughing a little. “Sleep well?” 

_He'd noticed, then._

Zak peered up and nodded. “Just had some weird dreams. Like, _really_ vivid.”

“What about?” 

“Memories,” he said, and he trusted Darryl to leave it at that. 

They’d talked about it before. Zak had hated every minute of it, but they’d had the conversation about where they’d come from, what they’d been through. 

If it were up to Zak, they’d never talk about it again. His subconscious had other plans, apparently. 

“Well,” Darryl said, “how do you feel about going out and making some new memories?” Zak laughed. 

“What, of walking for hours on end-“

“Yep!” 

“Over these boring, flat plains-“

“Uh huh!” 

“so that we can make explosives, and then go to bed, and then wake up to walk over _more_ flat plains, it all sounds _super_ memorable.“

“Duh! I’m here,” Darryl said, rolling up his bedroll and smiling over at him, “of _course_ it’s going to be memorable.” 

“Wow,” Zak said dryly, rolling his bed up as well, “that’s self absorbed.” 

“No, it’s _confident_ and _positive,_ ” he corrected, getting to his feet. He held a hand out for Zak to pull himself up, which he did, and they set off along the plains. 

The going was, admittedly, easy. The plains were flat enough that they could see monsters from far enough away that they could take care of them before they became a problem. Noises travelled, so they could hear trouble from a mile away. There was plenty of sand on the banks of plenty of ponds, so making the explosives they had to make was as simple as could be. 

Half of him wondered if Dan had sent them out this way deliberately so they’d be in less danger. He didn’t have to be a genius to work out that the Faywall forest was home to more monsters and wildlings, and that going through the Cavecross ravine was about as dangerous as walking straight into the court of the Mad King. He was kind of irritated at the thought that Dan had sent him off, practically bubble-wrapped, on the way to the Mad King. 

Then he’d look up and see Darryl whistling, pointing out the horses as they went, trying to match the snatches of birdsong they caught now and then, and he couldn’t help but feel absurdly grateful. 

After all, he’d already-

It didn’t matter. It was in the past. They’d talked about it and if Zak had his way they’d never talk about it again. All they had to do was meet up with the others with twenty-five pounds of carefully-constructed explosives, and they were done. 

He just had to keep them both alive until then. 

* * *

* * *

The forest was eerily silent, Clay thought, but he supposed that was better than it being too noisy. They’d found themselves on a ridge, a cliff-face to their left and a steep slope down to their right. It was overcast, with thick grey clouds hanging low in the sky, close enough to touch, making everything look soft and muted and washed out. 

You were supposed to avoid ridges, generally, when you were being covert; too easy to see your silhouette and run, too easy to get targeted by a brave citizen with a bow, too easy to trip and fall and get yourself in a bad situation. But the tree cover was still pretty extensive, and they didn’t have to worry about an attack from any side. A small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless. Nick would glance anxiously over his shoulder every so often, and Clay wasn’t good at reading people but he didn’t have to be to know that Nick was looking at George. 

He didn’t think that George had noticed, yet, which was a miracle. Until he lost his footing, slightly, stumbled just barely enough for it to be audible, and Nick’s head swung around instantly. 

_Oh no._

“What on earth are you even _looking_ at, Sapnap?” George asked frostily. 

“I’m just looking, _George,_ ” Nick responded, just as acerbic, “or do I need to ask your permission to _look_ at stuff now?” 

“ _Oh my God,_ here we go,” Clay muttered under his breath. He supposed he should have been thankful that it had taken four whole days for them to get mad at each other over nothing. 

“Well _maybe_ you should keep your eyes on the path in front of you,” George said, “plenty of stuff to look at up ahead.”

“Well _maybe_ you should walk more carefully and I wouldn’t-“ Nick said, and stopped mid-sentence. In the half a breath of silence that followed, Clay heard rustling coming from above them. He glanced up, saw something blur with movement. He narrowed his eyes. To quiet to have been a bird-

“No, go on, finish!” George said, “don’t stop on _my_ account. What were you going to say?” 

_Top of the cliff; vantage point, move silently, tree cover, dry day; no footprints, cloudy day; no shadow-_

“I was going to say-“ 

In the diffused sunlight, Clay just caught sight of the flashing of an arrowhead peaking over the cliff. 

“Hunters!” he yelled, and dragged George by the collar flush against the cliff face just as the _twang_ of a crossbow sounded through the air. The bolt embedded itself in the dirt inches from where George’s feet had been, and Sapnap drew his sword and pressed his back up against the stoney cliff. They drew their swords and waited for one, two, three breaths before armoured bodies dropped down in front of them, and then he was swinging. 

And then there was a body in front of him, faceless and distant and clad in shining silver armour and he was swinging. 

And George and Nick were yelling, and there were two others, and Dream had drawn his sword and he was swinging. 

It felt familiar, like pulling on a set of old, broken in boots, to drop his centre of gravity and twist out of the way of the sword-swing. The hunter ( _Lampyridae? City? Didn’t matter)_ swung their sword at him just as he managed to get his shield up in time to block it, embed it in the wood, try to twist it out of their grip. They were reaching down for a knife, hunting knife with mean serrated edges swinging inches from his masked face, and Dream had just enough space and momentum to catch them on the side of their arm with his sword, slipping up through a gap in the armour, drawing thick red blood. 

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Sapnap just barely duck out of the way of the sword stroke of his hunter, watched him stumble sideways towards the hill.

The hill. 

He looked away for half a second, which was more than enough for the hunter to slice at his knuckles, get in a swing at his upper arm which started to bleed. The pain was clarifying. Familiar. Dull and distant and adrenaline dampened. He knew what to do. 

Dream twisted around, bashing who he now saw was Lampyridae ( _whose eyes were wide, whose shoulders jerked as they tried to keep their balance, who had never fully recovered from that incident that had broken their ankle_ ) just enough to knock them off balance. He swung for their good side, and as they tried to overcompensate to avoid putting any weight on their bad ankle, he dropped the shield, and caught their arm, and was stabbing the sword deep, deep into their abdomen. 

He dropped them and they stumbled back, rolling backwards down the hill. 

No time to watch them go.

He spun around, George caught up in a melee match with Lazy-Eye, he’d be fine, Lazy specialised in ranged attacks, but Sapnap was struggling, breathing heavily, sweating, flagging as he tried to block and dodge the elegant and efficient attacks from the ginger hunter.

Dream planted a hand on the hunter’s shoulder and spun it towards him, away from Sapnap, just as the hunter had raised his sword, and Dream was shifting his stance and getting ready to parry and working out how to use his weight to his advantage and-

The hunter froze. 

The hunter froze. The sword stayed high in the air, and did not continue its downward trajectory, and gave Dream enough time to get a good look at the hunter’s face. 

_Pandarius._

_He’s grown out his moustache._

_It looks bad._

They stood, staring at each other, and every muscle in Clay’s body felt pulled so taught he thought he might tear himself apart. Pandarius’s pale ( _familiar_ ) eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape. 

He moved, jerkily, suddenly, and twisted his arm to change the direction of the sword-stroke. Pandarius swung from the shoulder, nice, slow, easy to block. Clay blocked, riposted, and they were back in the old familiar dance, shuffling back and forth along the ridge. Clay wasn’t striking to kill, but Pandarius was giving him more than enough opportunity. 

Pandarius wasn’t striking to kill either, particularly, his swings easy and slow, perfect form. He was letting Clay back him up along the ravine, away from George and Nick, away from his friends- 

Or towards his friends, maybe, Pandarius was his friend- 

Or he had been- 

But he wasn’t trying to- 

But would he-

_(He was running on autopilot now, not thinking, not focusing, trying too hard to work out what to do, letting his arm come up to block, parry, strike, be parried, and that was no good, you needed to think in order to-)_

“Dream!” 

Clay turned his head for half a second and saw Nick pinned again, bleeding from the nose, an arrow in his shoulder, George scrambling to his feet and drawing his axe against Lazy-Eye, who Pandarius had been infatuated with since they were fourteen. George got a solid smack in, the axe biting through her backplate. She turned and put a hand on George’s chest and shoved him backwards, hard, and George tripped over a stray root and went rolling and stuttering down the hill. 

Lazy-Eye drew her crossbow, and Nick rushed forward, sword drawn.Pandarius, who had been infatuated with Lazy-Eye since they were fourteen was lunging forward at Nick. 

Clay didn’t think before he moved, sliding his blade through Pandarius’s fourth and fifth rib. 

And Nick was slicing at Lazy-Eye who went down like she was filled with sand, tumbling head over heel down the hill, and Nick was running down after George.

And Clay’s sword was still between Pandarius’s fourth and fifth rib. He removed it and threw it to the ground, going to catch Pandarius as he tumbled to the ground.

And he had Pandarius laid out across his thighs and was and holding his hand and apologising.

And he was holding Pandarius’s hand and apologising.

And he was holding Pandarius’s hand and apologising as blood gurgled up around his mouth, staining the god-awful moustache, saying something, saying ‘I…I…I…'

And he was holding Pandarius’s hand and apologising as it went limp, as his chest stopped moving.

And…

And…

“ _Clay?”_ Nick yelled up from from the bottom of the hill. 

Fuck. 

Nick. 

_George._

He laid Pandarius down and hauled himself to his feet, grabbing his sword and stumbling down the hill to where Nick was standing, half an arrow sticking out of his arm.

George was lying on his side on the dirt. His arm was bent at a weird angle and he wasn’t moving. Nick was wide eyed and pale. 

Lampyridae was face down in the grass a short distance away. Lazy-Eye was in a heap, caught on some bushes, her severed arm making it a little further down the hill. And Pandarius was up on the ridge, his eyes still wide open and mouth still covered in blood. 

“Should I-“ Nick said, making an aborted movement to grab George. Clay shook his head. _At least that was an easy question_. 

He knelt down next to George and put a hand on his shoulder, the one that wasn’t pinned between George and the ground, and shook gently. 

“George,” he said, and tapped the back of his fingers against George’s still-warm cheek, “George, wake up. Come on.” 

There was nothing for several long seconds. Clay’s mouth was dry and his eyes burned. 

Pandarius was still lying alone on the ridge. 

George’s eyelids fluttered slightly, he groaned a little. Clay let out a sigh of relief and glanced over his shoulder, where Nick had thumped back against a tree and slid down, head tilted back, eyes closed. 

“George,” Clay said, and crouched down next to him, one hand on his shoulder. He felt his arm sting in warning. Adrenaline wearing off. “George, come on, hey. George.” 

“Wuzzat-“ George mumbled, tilting his head slightly and wincing with his full body, groaning in pain. 

“Take it easy,” Clay said, and his voice didn’t sound quite right, he thought distantly, “sit slowly. You hit your head and your arm-“

“Your arm’s _fucked up_ , dude,” Nick said, and it wasn’t helpful, but it was distantly funny. He kind of wanted to laugh. 

“Broken,” George managed through gritted teeth, and managed to get himself up into a sitting position, Clay’s hand on his back easing him upright. 

“Yeah,” Clay said. “It was a long drop.” 

“Need to…” he said, as he started to manoeuvre his broken arm into a position he could hold it in, cradled close to his chest. Clay still had one hand on George’s back, keeping him upright as he winced his way into getting the arm somewhere comfortable. Nick came over and sat on the other side of him, pulling a bandanna out of his pocket and fashioning it into a sling. They were bickering with each other, no heat behind it, and he didn’t have the energy to care. Clay let himself tune out and stare off into space, at the rustling of the mostly-dead trees. By now the cut on his arm was really starting to sting, obtrusive and demanding, now that the adrenaline was waning.

“Holy _shit,_ Clay,” George said, and his face swam into Clay’s vision, eyes wide and concerned, darting over his mask, down over his clothes, “what-“

“It’s-“ he started, and stopped. He looked down at his clothes, covered in dark red blood. He wet his lips, mouth feeling dry, and Pandarius was still lying alone on the ridge. “I’m… they just got the one swing at me. It’s not mine. It’s not mine.” 

* * *

He blinked and suddenly he was on flat ground, kneeling over a crackling fire with their packs and bedrolls scattered around, poking at it with his good arm. George and Nick were still weakly bickering at each other, an empty bottle held in one of George’s hands, the other wrapped around the arrow still in Nick’s shoulder. 

He looked back towards the fire, placing another log onto it. Nick yelped in pain as George pulled the arrow out, saying something to the effect of ‘don’t be such a baby’. 

He put another stick on the fire, just to watch it burn. They’d killed the hunters in the area, they didn’t need to worry about the smoke now.

_He hadn’t thought before he moved, sliding his blade through Pandarius’s fourth and fifth rib._

“See, Clay?” George said, and Clay glanced up. George was wrapping some thick white bandages around Nick’s shoulder, “It really is _that_ easy to not be a whiny baby about it.” 

Clay thought of what to say to that. He just snorted, made some weak comment like ‘fuck off’, went back to staring at the fire. 

He went to warm his fingers against it and stopped suddenly, noting dully that they were still covered in blood. His blood, Pandarius’s blood, maybe Lampyridae’s. Didn’t matter. 

_He’d been holding Pandarius’s hand and apologising as blood gurgled up around his mouth, staining the god-awful moustache, saying-_

George appeared in his periphery, suddenly, and Clay startled backwards. George had a weird look on his face that Clay didn’t have the energy to decode, and his one arm still in the makeshift sling. Nick had set a bucket of water on the fire, still holding the bloody needle and empty bottle, waiting for the water to boil so that he could 

“Jesus,” Clay breathed, but relaxed. “Startled me.” 

“Well that’s your fault for not paying attention,” George said, rolling his eyes, “take your coat off, let me stitch up your arm.” 

Clay slid his ( _blade through Pandarius’s fourth and fifth rib-_ ) arms out of the coat, moving gingerly. It hurt, and he sucked a breath in through his teeth as he waited for it to subside. It was kind of grounding. It was kind of a reminder of where he was. What he was doing. He was here, with Nick and George, and he was breathing and bleeding, and Pandarius was lying alone-

George handed him a stick and without thinking, Clay put it on the fire. 

Nick shot him a weird, confused look. 

“Dude,” he said. 

“What?” Clay asked defensively. 

“I said ‘bite’,” George said, and when Clay looked over George was laughing anxiously. 

The thing to do was to probably send back some kind of charming, witty retort. He was charming, sometimes. He could be witty. He was usually pretty witty, around people he liked, Pandarius had _tumbled to the ground, and he had Pandarius laid out across his thighs and was and holding his hand and apologising._

“Oh,” he managed. He laughed weakly. “Sorry.” 

He turned back to the fire and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Nick and George share a worried look over his head. He turned back to George. 

“Hey,” he said, nudging him gently, “I’m bleeding out over here.” 

George scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t have anything else for you to like, bite down on, since you burned the one sanitary one we had,” he said, and pulled out the bottle of whiskey from his pack. He handed it to Clay who robotically took a couple of swigs, feeling it burn acridly in the back of his throat. He coughed a couple of times, distracted from the burning, stinging, stinking of George tipping whiskey over the wound. 

“Eugh,” he said, “that stuff’s…” 

“Yeah,” Nick said, dropping his bloody needle into the water, “I bet they deliberately give you the bad stuff, so you’re not tempted to drink it.” 

“It’s cheaper,” George muttered under his breath, focused on the cut on Clay’s arm, and he hadn’t even noticed as he’d started the suture. 

“Tastes like it,” Nick said, “I think you should start getting the like, good stuff in.” 

“It’s _whiskey,”_ George said, and his voice came out slightly weird as he had the thread between his teeth to stop it from tangling, “it’s all bad.” 

“No, you’re just lame,” Nick said, and Clay let them argue over nothing, zoning out, glancing over his shoulder at the way they’d come. Pandarius was still lying alone on the ridge. 

“Clay?” Nick asked, and Clay got the feeling it hadn’t been for the first time, “what do you think?” 

“Yeah,” he said vaguely. 

Silence hung in the air. Whoops. He glanced down at his arm, which was now wrapped securely in clean, white bandage.

“Hey,” George said, his voice going all soft and careful, “are you sure you’re okay? Like, are you _sure_ you didn’t hit your head or anything?” 

Clay nodded. “Just the one from Lampyridae,” he said, “Pandarius-“ _had been infatuated with Lazy-Eye since they were fourteen and was lunging forward at Nick, and Clay hadn’t thought before he'd moved, sliding his blade through Pandarius’s fourth and fifth rib._

“Pandarius…” George said, encouraging. Clay just shook his head. Didn’t matter. 

“You knew them,” Nick said, and it wasn’t a question. Clay looked over and nodded. 

“What were they like?”

Terrible. Funny. Useless. Skilled. Mean. Kind. Allergic to dust and loved apple pie, and now lying in heaps in the wilderness for the dogs to maul. 

He knew what he had to do. 

Clay got to his feet, waiting for one of them to stop him. “I’ve gotta…go take a leak,” he said. They just nodded. 

He turned and walked back the way they’d came. The route felt familiar, almost picturesque in the low beams of the setting sun. It wasn’t long before he came to the bottom of the hill, Lampyridae still face down in the dirt, Lazy-Eye still caught on the bushes a little distance up the hill, and Pandarius was still lying alone on the ridge. 

The going was tough, and the stitches in his arm were not particularly happy about him scrambling up the steep hill, but he managed it in the end. 

He tried not to think about it as he slung Pandrius’s body over his shoulder and picked his way back down the hill, going as carefully as he could, laying his body down at the foot of the hill where it was just slightly flatter. 

He didn’t have a shovel. Maybe he should have thought this through a little better. 

He kneeled on the ground and dug his fingers into the dirt, pulling up a freezing clump of earth and throwing it aside. 

It was mindless. Repetitive. It meant he didn’t have to think. It made him feel a little better, like maybe he was evening the scales a little. He knew, in his head, it had been one or the other. It had been Nick and George or Pandarius. 

As he knelt in the dirt and slowly but surely carved out a grave for his old friend, he knew he wouldn’t have done anything different, if he’d had the chance to go back an hour. He wouldn’t have done anything different if he’d had the chance to go back a week, or a month, or a year. 

Something stuck into the dirt in front of him, and he startled a little. He looked up. 

A shovel. Made out of bark and rope and sticks, but a shovel, was sticking out if the dirt in front of him.

He glanced up. Nick was standing next to him, leaning on a similar shovel. 

He felt the need to explain himself. Why he was doing this for the people who had tried to kill them. The people who had broken George’s arm and shot at Nick and had wanted them dead.

Nick offered him a thin, weak smile, and begin to dig. 

Clay got to his feet and wordlessly dug along with him. 

The shadows grew long. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw George retrieving the other bodies, wiping the blood off them, reattaching Lazy-Eye’s arm. Once they’d dug one grave as deep and even as they could, they moved on to the next one. 

The sun was dipping low, the sky turning a thousand brilliant shades of orange and pink, by the time they had buried them all. Clay’s hands hurt, and they were all covered in dirt, but it settled something in him. 

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the graves. His eyes burned, and behind the mask he let himself cry a little. 

“Lampyridae. Lazy-Eye. Pandarius,” he said, voice thick, “I never…they never told me their real names. They didn’t know mine either.” 

George reached up with his good arm and stretched it across Clay’s shoulders. 

“Do you…want to say some words?” he asked. 

Clay took a shaking breath. 

No. He didn’t have to pretend with them. They’d seen every weird, angry, terrible angle of him. He didn’t want to speak at whatever kind of fucked up funeral for his old friends they’d managed to cobble together, and he knew they wouldn’t think any worse of him. He sniffled, piercingly loud in the quiet of the evening, and shook his head. 

George rubbed his hand over Clay’s shoulder, tugging him down a little. Clay tipped his head so that it was resting on George’s shoulder, and it hurt his back and it probably wasn’t all that comfortable for George either, but it didn’t matter. It was warm. Calming. 

Nick took two steps forward, and cleared his throat. “We’ll…we’ll remember you,” he said, “when we blow up the Mad King’s castle. We’ll do it for you. We’ll remember you.” 

Clay squeezed his eyes shut for half a second. 

George’s arm was warm and solid and soft against his shoulders, and the thick smell of mushrooms and citrus that clung to his clothes was familiar. 

He turned his masked face towards George’s shoulder and remembered what George had said to them the last time they’d been like this. 

_I don’t think you’re a monster. I think you’re a victim. We both are._

They all had been. 

Clay took one more deep, steadying breath, and let himself be lead back to their camp. 

* * *

Time slipped by weirdly. Clay had nudged him awake, wordlessly, taken off his mask ( _thank God_ ), and lain down to sleep. George had wriggled himself into a sitting position, leaning against the thick trunk of a tree. 

Clay hadn’t said anything all night. That was fine, George told himself. He’d say something when he felt like he could, George told himself. 

It didn’t make it any less worrying. 

George glanced down at where Clay was lying on his bedroll. On his back, eyes shut, breathing too evenly. Even in the low glow of the dying campfire, George could see Clay’s eyes moving beneath his eyelids. He was still awake. 

Watching Clay dig those graves had made something thick rise in his throat. It had hurt, distantly, a reminder that Clay had a life before him. 

It was easy to forget that he’d grown up with these people. Lived with them, fought with them. Sometimes, Clay would tell George the most awful stories; how this person did that and they went home with third degree burns, how they fought so brutally that he still had a raised ridge of scars across his shoulder from a ‘training incident’, how they’d hated each other, clawing for the top spot. Clawing each other’s throats out to be the best. 

Fish and Null had been ready to kill them both in a blink of an eye. Those guys back in Ravengrave hadn’t hesitated before trying to turn him in for whatever reward there was. But it couldn’t all have been bad. 

_They_ couldn’t all have been bad. 

Some of them had been his friends, probably. 

_What do you say_ , George wondered, _to someone who killed their friends for you? What do you tell someone who had to dig three shallow graves for three dead friends?_ It made guilt twist hard and low in his gut, if he thought about it too much. He shifted quietly closer to where Clay lay, his arm throbbing in pain a little. 

Clay rolled over, slowly, still pretending to be asleep. He stretched one arm over George’s calf and pulled himself closer, pressing his face into the side of George’s knee. George could see frown lines appear on Clay’s forehead. 

Slowly, George dropped his good hand down into Clay’s hair. 

_What do you say to someone who killed and buried their friends for you?_

_Nothing._

Clay let out a quiet, shaking sigh, as George stroked his hand through the greasy blond hairs. He ran his thumb up and over Clay’s forehead, smoothing out the wrinkles. 

Clay shifted a little, tilting his head up to look at George through his lashes. George offered him a small smile, and got a thin, strained, not particularly happy one in return. 

“Hey,” George whispered. 

Further off to his left, Nick stirred, rolling over onto his side and reaching out with one searching arm. 

“Hey,” Clay whispered back, his voice rough and low and sad. George kept stroking his fingers through Clay’s hair, slowly, gently, randomly. 

Nick grumbled in his sleep and kept groping around blindly. Clay glanced over his shoulder at him, and George could see the dark rings around his eyes. He’d been crying. 

It made his chest hurt.

“You should try and get some sleep,” George said, and Clay looked back up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. _What do you say?_ “Today _really_ sucked.” 

Clay let out a huff of breath that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.” 

Nick rolled over further, and his fingers brushed against the textured fabric of Clay’s coat. He grabbed a fistful of it, hanging on, and settled back into sleep. Clay glanced over his shoulder and smiled a little before pressing his face back into the side of George’s knee. They sat there quietly. 

“I-“ Clay started, and his words were muffled by the fabric of George’s trousers, “I just…I feel like I should…like…say something, or like…explain. About…” he trailed off. The wind rustled through the treetops. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” George said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. He scratched lightly at Clay’s scalp and felt Clay sigh a little. “You don’t have to say anything about it. Ever. If you want to talk about it later we’ll talk about it later. But I think you should probably sleep for now.” 

Clay moved his thumb up and down over George’s calf, just the once, like he was trying to tell George something, maybe thank him, but it didn’t matter. George kept one ear on the scurrying and slithering of the forest, and one ear on Clay’s breathing as he heard it slow, even out, deepen, and slide into sleep. 

* * *

They walked on. One day, when the sun was high overhead, Nick shimmied up a tree and got swooped by a furious bird whose nest was presumably nearby. Somewhere between watching Nick desperately trying to placate a squawking bird the size of his fist and yelling up unhelpful advice, George heard Clay laughing. 

It was enough. 

They kept moving. 

* * *

* * *

It had been a week, and Techno was starting to get truly sick of the caves. 

They were dark, and damp, and stunk of rotting flesh and spider carcasses. 

They had another five days travelling through the ravine, at least, but the next five days promised to be much worse. The ravine was closing up, the path ahead reaching out into deep, dark shadows. 

This meant that they’d need torches and watches and a compass that wouldn’t be disturbed by any iron-deposits. They had two of the three. 

Techno paused, Tommy and Tubbo walking ahead a little ways before turning and glancing back at Techno, wondering why he’d stopped. 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Pieces on a chessboard. 

_He had sent three of his men out West, to pick their way through the Faywall forest; a treacherous route which is why they had the healer. Two of his men were on the Wolfbluff plains to the East, where they’d have enough sand to build explosives. That just left himself and two men (two boys) two men, travelling on the most direct route. If they deviated from the ravine they would find themselves in the rolling foothills of Lowe, populated by villages, which they’d been told by Wadzee were being patrolled-_

“Techno?” Tubbo asked hesitantly.

“Shh, I’m thinking,” Techno said. 

_Told by Wadzee were being patrolled, so villages were a no-go; they were more likely to get caught and they’d definitely all be killed, leaving nobody to lead the final push against the Mad King and his men would die and his city would burn and the realm would be robbed of the last vestiges of hope that things might get better-_

He opened his eyes. The stakes were too high. They’d fought spiders before and been fine. Continuing through Cavecross was the most tactically sound thing to do. The least amount of uncertainty, the fewest variables to account for. 

“Come on,” he said, pulling a torch from his pack and lighting it. “We’re on a schedule.”

He strode forward with all the confidence he could muster, followed close behind by Tommy and Tubbo. 

It was disorienting, walking through pitch darkness. There were no shadows to gauge the passage of time, minutes and hours passed in the same meaningless trickle. Every now and then four pairs of glowing eyes would peer out at them from the depths, hissing in that low, dripping way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’d glare back at them, willing them to come closer, daring them. 

They would slink away back into the shadows. Techno would walk on, head held high. 

It was surreal. 

He checked his watch at one point, sparing a glance behind him at Tommy and Tubbo, who had been almost _too_ quiet. It’d been about four hours. Four hours of tactically advantageous silence from the two loudest people he had ever met. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have told them that ghost story. 

He turned forwards and paused, arcing the torch out in front of him. The light caught on glistening spiderwebs, thick and stretching out across the path ahead. 

“Ew,” Tubbo said. 

“Yeah,” Techno said, and glanced around the shadows. In the echoing silence of the cavern, he heard distant shuffling, scuttling. 

“Must’ve been one big ugly bastard that made all this,” Tommy said. 

“Hm.” Techno hummed, noncommittally. 

They could, in theory, set the whole thing alight. It would burn brightly and would open the way forward. 

Tommy was right, though, it was a large spider that had spun this web. Deep in the cavernous darkness, spiders could probably grow large enough to swallow them whole. Destroying a web like this would at the very least aggravate the theoretical spider, which was not a particularly good thing to be stuck in a cave with for the next five days. 

They couldn’t go forward. They couldn’t go back. 

“Techno?” Tommy said, “what do we do?” 

_What do we do? Nothing. Impossible scenario. No-win scenario. The risks in both directions were too high to be acceptable, and he should have planned for this, should have come up with some kind of fallback that meant they could avoid both and oh god he’s killed them, he’s killed them all, he’s-_

Techno opened his mouth to say something right as something damp and viscous dripped onto his foot. He glanced up, and was met by dozens of enormous glowing red eyes staring down at him. 

Well. That answered that, at least. 

Tubbo and Tommy glanced up as well, and dropped down into a slightly more combative stance, Tommy drawing his sword, Tubbo fumbling with his crossbow in the dark. 

“Stay calm,” Techno said, “don’t make any sudden movements.” 

“Techno-“ Tubbo hissed. 

“Calmly, we’re going to back out, and find another way around,” he said, his voice calm and steady, and he was glad it didn’t betray the shaking of his right hand, “slowly back out.” 

They crept, inch by inch, backwards. 

The spiders watched them go. 

They scuttled away, lightning-quick, down the web, and watched from there. 

“Techno!” 

“Shh, just stay calm.” 

_Pieces on a chessboard, they were numbered one to one, they were out-armed, out-matched, they wouldn’t be able to out-run them, they had to strike first, they had to get the first hit in before they could be totally overcome or they’d-_

“Tubbo,” he said in what he hoped sounded like a low, soothing voice, “on my count, aim for the eyes. As soon as that happens things are going to get hairy, Innit, but wait until Tubbo’s fired. Keep them in front, keep them away from the walls.” 

Techno raised the torch high above his head, sweeping it in a tight semi-circle. The light caught another cluster of glistening spider’s webs. 

“On three,” he said quietly. 

“One.” The spiders started to climb down from the web. 

“Two.” He heard the string of the crossbow pulled taught in the silence.

“Three.” 

The crossbow went off with a piercing _thwang_ right as Techno threw his torch onto the webs. They caught fire, brilliantly, and cast the cavern in a bright orange glow. 

The spiders hissed, maybe in pain, it was hard to tell, and started forward. Techno and Tommy ran forwards to meet them as Tubbo fumbled with a second bolt, loading it, aiming again, but by now they were being rushed, the sounds of too many legs clicking sharply across the stone floor. 

Another crossbow bolt flew at one of them, embedding in the eye of one of the spiders with a sickening squelch, and it screamed as it collapsed, twitching. 

Techno ran, boots rocketing over the stone, at the biggest one. It lunged at him and he ducked down, sliding a little on the stone and bumping into one of its hoary legs. It kicked at him, leaving an indent in his leather armour, and he swung out. The diamond sword bit through the thick hairy shell of the spider, digging deep into the leg. It stumbled, rolling onto its side, and he got to his feet, ready to duck and dodge out of the way. 

The spider turned towards him, fangs dripping with a thick, inky substance, and it shot forward. He dipped out of the way right as it went to bite him, putting its enormous hairy head right at his elbow. Eight glowing eyes, reflecting the bright orange light that still burned behind him, glistened up at him. 

Techno rose his sword.

Right as he drove the blade through the spider’s eye he heard Tommy scream. He whipped his head around to see Tommy, sword on the ground, one arm in the maw of the spider. 

He pulled his sword out and sprinted towards the spider, whose fangs were still in Tommy, the light catching on a gap between two planes of thick exoskeleton. He sliced through it and the spider hissed, dropping Tommy in a heap on the ground. As it turned to bite at Techno, another crossbow bolt came shooting through the shadows, sticking into its neck, shedding dark green blood over the dusty stone.

It collapsed, still twitching, and Techno kicked it away. 

“Tommy? Tommy, oh my God, oh my God,” he heard Theo saying, and he took a deep breath to slow the racing of his heart. 

He turned back to where Tommy was lying, groaning ( _breathing)_ , retching, clutching his arm. Theo was kneeling next to him, hands hovering anxiously, looking lost, looking like he had no idea what to do- 

Neither did Techno, but that didn’t matter. Theo looked up at him with wide, pale, panicked eyes. 

“Techno-“ he started, his voice high and anxious. The light in the cave was starting to fade. Techno strode over, trying to put out confidence, calmness. The last thing they needed was all three of them too panicked to think. 

“Light a torch before it gets too dark,” he said, and Theo scrambled to his feet. Techno crouched down next to Tommy, grabbing the bitten arm maybe a little too roughly, and he distantly wished he’d just kept them all together so at least George would be here to work out what to do. 

Theo returned, hovering over his shoulder, a lit torch in his hand. In the orange light, Techno could see the wound turning a dark green colour, that same thick venom seeping out of the edges along with trickles of blood. Tommy gagged again and groaned. He blinked over at Techno, his pupils enormous and slightly oval-shaped, even in the direct light of the torch.

He needed a cleric. He needed bandages and maybe stitches. He needed someone who knew what they were doing.

They didn’t have any of that. 

“Techno…” Theo said, and Techno turned over his shoulder. “What…what do we do?”

_What do they do? They needed help. The poison would probably take a day or two to make it through his system, and they couldn’t just stay here in the ravine waiting for the next batch of spiders to come and chew on them. Risks unacceptable. Tactical blunder. They needed beds, walls, food-_

_Milk._

_They’d need to risk the villages._

“We’ve gotta get him outta here,” Techno was saying, shedding his pack and rooting around through it for the bandages. “We’ve gotta go back the way we came.” 

He pulled some bandages from his bag and watched them unravel a little. He haphazardly wrapped it around Tommy’s arm, and Tommy gave a strangled yelp as he put pressure on it. He dressed the wound as quickly as he could, tying it off in a knot that would hold long enough for them to get to a village. 

“Help him up,” Techno said, and held his hand out for the torch. Theo pressed it into his waiting hand and hurried over to try and pull Tommy to his feet. 

Techno held the torch and grabbed Tommy’s pack, slinging it over one shoulder. He unbuckled the sheath from Tommy’s belt, sheathed his sword, and buried that in the pack as well. 

He got to his feet and glanced around, looking for the tell-tale glowing eyes. There were none. He glanced back over his shoulder where Theo had managed to get Tommy into something approximating an upright position. 

“Ready?” 

Theo nodded. 

They turned back the way they came, the going slow but familiar. Techno had his head down, eyes flicking between the walls, ears straining for the first sign of noise. Under the thick rasping of Tommy’s breathing, the hushed encouragements from Theo, the occasional gagging and retching coming from behind nim, the echoing ravine was silent. 

“Techno,” Tommy managed at one point, struggling around the words, “T-Dan, I’m sorry, I’m-“ 

Techno stopped, turned, and looked at the pale sweaty face of Tommy. He smiled and shook his head, wanting to reach out and ruffle his hair, but his hands were full. He had his sword in one hand, and the torch in the other, and he couldn’t put either of them down. 

“It’s not your fault,” Technoblade said. 

_It’s mine._

* * *

* * *

It was pouring with rain, and Zak was already in a bad mood. 

It had been a long, painful night. Something about sleeping out in the wilderness had put him on edge, and in his dreams he kept descending the dungeon to start his shift as a guard, and seeing- 

Whatever. 

He wasn’t above sleeping within arm’s reach of Darryl. To get to sleep he’d taken to treating his fingers through Darryl’s and clutching on tightly. Darryl didn’t mention it. They’d been friends a long time. 

It helped, some nights. Sometimes he woke up and his knuckles were white and fatigued from how tightly he’d been clutching Darryl’s hand, little half-moon indents from where his fingernails had pressed against Darryl’s skin. He felt distantly bad about it, but they never seemed to bother Darryl, so he figured he could get over it. 

It had been a long night, and the pouring rain only made him more irritable. They marched on over the muddy, marshy ground, and Darryl was _whistling_ , and it was really starting to- 

“Can you just-“ he snapped, turning violently towards him, and Darryl’s eyebrows rose. He stopped. 

He didn’t look hurt, though, just expectant. The frustration left Zak in a single wave. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and pushed the damp black hair out of his forehead. “Sorry.” 

“Rough night?” Darryl asked lightly. Zak nodded. 

“You’ve been having a lot of those,” he said, and there was the edge of concern in his voice. 

“Yeah,” he started, and sighed. He glanced over at Darryl, whose expression was open and patient and expectant. 

“I think there’s just something about…being out here? Going to the capital?” he tried, “that’s making me think about when we…” 

“Ah,” Darryl said, and took a couple steps closer. “Arrived, or left?” 

It was easier to talk around it obliquely like this. “Left.” 

Darryl took another step closer. “It makes sense, y’know. It’s not like, a super weird reaction to where we are. I’ve been having weird dreams too.” 

Zak looked up at him, at his gentle, smiling eyes and his glasses which were certainly blurred with rainwater by now. 

He felt the old, familiar guilt stir at the back of his throat. How he’d managed to drag them both through the muck so many times and still have Darryl _here_ was beyond him. He opened his mouth to say something, but was abruptly cut off by a sharp flick to his forehead. 

“Ow!” he yelped, rubbing the spot Darryl had just flicked, “what the f-“ 

“Language.” 

“-muffin, Darryl?” 

“You had that look on your face,” Darryl said, pointing at him accusingly, “like you were about to say something mean about yourself.”

“I-“ how Darryl had gotten so perceptive in the six or so years they’d been separated, he had no idea.

“You make the same face _every_ time,” he said, walking on. Zak followed.

“Well-“ 

“No, cut it off,” Darryl said, and there was genuine, mild irritation in his eyes. “That’s _my_ best friend you’re about to be mean to.” 

“Okay, okay,” Zak said, and then stopped. Under the thrumming of the rain, he heard something. 

“I _know_ how much you hate talking about all this “mushy gushy” stuff,” Darryl was saying, “but-“ 

“Shut up a second, Bad,” he said, and the use of his codename was enough to get Darryl to stop walking, listen. 

They heard the humming of hooves over the plain. The kind of humming that came with synchronised movement, not the kind you got from wild horses. The kind you got from a band of f. They couldn’t quite see through the sleeting rain, just barely being able to see ten feet in front of their faces, but they heard it. 

He glanced around. Nowhere to hide. If they had fifteen minutes, they might be able to break away towards the tree line. But the sound of hooves was getting closer. They didn’t have that kind of time.

Darryl came to stand next to him, crossbow mounted on his shoulder, slowly surveying the landscape around them. Zak drew his sword and fought to keep his breathing even. He pressed his back against Darryl’s and watched with keen eyes for the first sign of movement.

“You don’t think…” he trailed off, and hoped Darryl would understand. He shook his head. 

“It was years ago,” he said quietly. “They’re probably looking for Dream and George. They’ll leave us alone.” 

They stood, back to back, and listened carefully. 

Out of the grey mists, a rider appeared, dressed in a patchwork of rags and cloths, and they just barely managed to dive out of the way before being trampled under the horse’s hooves. The rider turned on a dime and rode back towards Zak, who ducked out of the way and cut upwards, trying to knock the rider out of the saddle. He drew blood, and it turned pink as it mixed with the falling rain, but the rider stayed steady in the saddle. He ducked sideways out of the way of Darryl’s crossbow bolt, and he heard Bad reload and send another one flying, sticking in the rider’s shoulder and finally knocking him out of the saddle. 

If he had been alone, he could have gotten away on the horse’s back. 

But that would mean leaving Darryl. 

He wasn’t the kind of person to make the same mistake twice. 

Zak ran up to the horse and smacked it as hard as he could on its haunches, The horse reared up and screamed, kicking out and running wildly off into the mists. He pressed forwards, slicing at the rider who had drawn his own sword ( _iron, it was just iron, he wasn’t_ -) and then they were fighting, fiercely, sliding a little in the muddy ground and cutting out as aggressively as he could. 

He heard a cut off yelp and a thud, and looked away to see Bad on the ground, a second horse and rider running past him. His eyes went wide. 

While he was watching with bated breath as Darryl got to his feet ( _thank God, thank God, thank God-_ ), a cold, sharp blade pressed itself flat against his neck. 

“Don’t kill him!” came a muffled voice, at around the same time that Darryl called his codename, voice cracking with fear and desperation. 

Zak swung his elbow back into the stomach of the rider, hard, and his grip faltered just enough for him to wriggle out of his grasp. As he escaped he got a glance at the forearm of whoever was holding him, and paused a moment. 

It was smooth, bare, dark. It wasn’t branded. 

They weren’t manhunters. 

He rushed forward to Darryl’s side anyway, instinctively ducking down out of the way of the crossbow bolt Darryl fired at his pursuer. 

Another horseman was running at him from behind Darryl. He grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the way at the last minute, steadying him as he found his feet on the slippery mud. 

They stood close together, back to back, as more and more horsemen emerged from the mists. He could feel the rapid, heavy rise and fall of Darryl’s deep breathing, as they were slowly surrounded. 

Nowhere to run. 

He lunged forwards, going to nick one of the horses in the legs and maybe getting the upper hand. 

There was a blur of motion and something heavy hit him, pinning him down to the muddy ground. He struggled, feeling Darryl trying to reach his sword as well. It was no use. 

They were pinned under a net of thick, coarse rope, weighted down at the edged by some kind of rock or metal or something. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a horseman dismount, trident clutched tightly in one hand, and where had she gotten that? 

She stalked forward, pushing a ragged, fraying hood back from her eyes to get a closer look, and a wide, predatory grin stretched across her face. 

Zak tried to keep a neutral expression, even as his heart beat so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. 

“Oh, Ryan’s been looking for you for a _long_ time,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. Zak swallowed nervously. 

“We’ve got no dealings with the Mad King,” he said, and willed his voice to come out steady. She shook her head. 

“Not you,” she said, glancing down at Zak, and then crouching down just out of his eye line. He struggled his head to the side to see her down on her haunches, giving Darryl a sharp look. 

“You’re Darryl Novak,” she said, and hearing his full name come out of her lips made Zak feel sick in a way he almost couldn’t describe. 

“So?” He spat, willing to do anything, _anything_ to get her to stop looking at Darryl like that. 

“So, there’s a five-year old bounty on his debt-dodging head,” she said, standing up. She turned to the rest of them. 

“Tie them up. Once we get them to the capital, you’ll all have enough money to buy a thousand feather-down four-poster beds.” 

There was cheering, laughing, jeering, and Zak didn’t hear any of it. Darryl turned towards him, glasses sitting skewed on his face, and eyes wide with fear. 

It steeled something in him. They weren’t going to go down. Not without making noise. Not without a fight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obligated to say that you should never hold someone’s head under water it is very dangerous and bad ok PSA over.
> 
> Sorry about the cliffhanger! I try to avoid them because they always feel cheap to me, but really this chapter is already a huge monster and I just had to get it up so I could stop thinking about it haha. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, updates about updates (and also me contributing nothing to mcyttwt) can be found on my twitter, @SnakeHognose. My DMs are also always open so if you want to come and yell at me please do! 
> 
> <3 Snakey Love <3 
> 
> 🐍Hiss Hiss 🐍
> 
> Minor Edits 06/01/2021: Changed BBH's last name because I remembered they all have made up last names.


	5. In the Camp of Thornwell // The Village of Sampson // The Ruins of Windhallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skeppy and Bad Boy Halo escape the wildlings. 
> 
> Techno and Tubbo take Tommy to get some help. 
> 
> George and Sapnap go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Sorry this took so long but this chapter, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is a Real Beast. Thanks so much for patiently waiting, and for all the love and support I've gotten so far! 
> 
> I think from now on I’m going to aim for monthly uploads- so from now on assume the upload’s coming on the 20th of every month at some point during the day. Hopefully the rest of the chapters aren’t as huge and time consuming as this one. 
> 
> I am also perpetually aware that I dance with a lot of upsetting content in these fics. If you have any particular things you want me to put up CWs for, you can send me a message on Twitter or on discord, HognoseSnake#4772. 
> 
> CW: Mentions of parental death, very very mild and brief suicidal ideation (it’s for one line but jic this is the kind of thing you’re sensitive to, do take note), graphic depictions of violence, spiders (minor mentions), insomnia, grief, panic attacks, gore, torture, amputation, minor character death.

Each step of the horse was a fresh humiliation. 

Zak’s chest thumped painfully against the horse’s flank, hands tied together and swinging loosely in front of him, ankles bound behind him. He was slung over the horse like a freshly killed deer, resting against the front of the saddle. 

He craned his neck to try and get a glance at Darryl, lying over some other horse in much the same way, his glasses held protectively in his tied hands. 

The rain was still driving down, soaking him, the mud kicked up from the horse’s hooves splattering across his face. 

His jaw was clenched so hard he was sure he’d cracked a tooth.

The rain started to let up, just as the sun was setting. He heard the wet thumping of horse’s holes slow and then stop as they turned towards the tree line, the chatter of conversation bubble up in amongst the clinking and rustling of people dismounting. Someone was laughing. 

Someone grabbed him by his ankles and dragged him off the horse. He landed on his feet and toppled backwards, landing on his ass in the mud. The wildling laughed, and roughly hauled him to his feet. 

“Too easy,” she muttered to herself, “too easy.” 

Zak let himself be dragged along, doing his best to tamp down his scowl. 

They needed a way out. 

The wildlings were tacking up their horses, tying them to the low branches of the trees. The ground was damp and slightly underfoot, but noticeably drier than the plains. Something about the tree cover, maybe. 

Damp, but not sopping wet. 

He felt like that was notable, but couldn’t quite remember why- he caught sight of Darryl, blinking owlishly, glasses still in his hands. He was shoved, stumbling forward, just barely managing to get his still-bound feet under him. 

Zak glowered, but bit his tongue. He had to focus on getting them out. He couldn’t afford to poke the bear. 

They were divested of their packs, which were slung carelessly in a heap on the other side of the camp. Darryl flinched as his pack, carrying three pounds of raw gunpowder and at least one set of flint and steel, clattered loudly to the ground. There was half a second of horrible, breathtaking tension. 

The pack didn’t explode. Zak let out a breath. 

He was shoved forwards, sat down by a tree trunk. They untied his hands and for a few heart-pounding seconds he thought maybe he could start swinging and run for his life. 

He was outnumbered eight to one. And if he wanted to get out like that, he’d have to leave Darryl behind. 

Not an option. 

He let them tie his hands behind his back, and attach them to a rope that ran around the narrow trunk of a nearby oak tree. Darryl was reaching into his pocket with his bound wrists, glasses still clenched tightly in his hands. The people around him started yelling, raising their weapons, but Darryl pulled out a glasses case, holding his hands up in the closest thing to a surrender he could get. The wildlings laughed, and Zak wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying, but he thought he could probably guess based on the tone of voice. Mocking. Humiliating. 

Darryl put his glasses away, fumbling with it clumsily, catching it in deft fingers, awkwardly putting it back into his pocket.

There was something not quite right about the whole situation. Aside from the obvious. Something he wasn’t seeing. 

Whatever it was, he was distracted from it by a wildling sticking their foot out in front of Darryl, trying to trip him up. It made him blindingly, frustratingly furious. 

Darryl was shoved down next to him, and tied up in the same way. Being pressed shoulder to shoulder, their clothes damp and muggy from the rain, covered in mud and surrounded by wildlings, Zak felt weirdly settled. 

They were together, this time. He just had to make sure they didn’t get separated. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. 

The wildlings had started squabbling amongst themselves, one of them had another in a headlock, two people were leaning still slouching in their saddles, passing an unlabelled bottle of dark liquid between them. 

He felt Darryl nudge him slightly. “You okay?” he whispered. 

Zak nodded, and then remembered that it was dark and Darryl didn’t have his glasses on. “Yeah. You?” 

“Yeah.” 

They watched as the wildling that had been in a headlock acquiesced and went crashing off into the forest, presumably in search of something that could pass for firewood. 

“Once we get this back to the Capital,” one of them yelled at his retreating figure, “you can pay someone to do this for you!” 

“Lotta money you think these guys are gonna make us, Half-Moon,” one of the people still slumped in the saddle said. He took a long drink from the unlabelled bottle. His companion made grabby hands for it, and he relinquished it. 

“Lotta money this guy’s worth,” she replied, jerking her head towards Darryl, “Bounty of 128 emeralds, plus whatever bonus we get for bringing him in alive, _plus_ any interest he wants on account of the age of the bounty-“ 

“How old can it be at this point?” he griped, starting to untangle himself from the stirrups. He slid from the horse and landed heavily on the ground. “Two years?”

“ _Five_ ,” she said, “ _six_ , maybe.” 

“Wow,” he said dryly, “amazing. I’m sorry for doubting you. Six _whole_ years-“ he shut up to duck out of the way when she chucked a stick at him. 

“Shut up, Barn Owl,” she said. 

“Why’s he so important?” someone else asked, from where they’d laid out some kind of sleeping mat. 

“Beats me, all it said was that he was a debt dodger,” Half-Moon said, glancing back at them. Zak scowled at the ground. 

“What about the other one?” 

Half-Moon shrugged, turning back towards the group. “Two for one? They seem to be attached.” 

“Are you sure it was _six_ years,” Barn Owl said, rolling out his own mat and throwing himself down onto it, “that seems like a long time to keep renewing a bounty for a debt dodger.” 

Zak felt Darryl shrink into himself slightly. 

“Maybe-“ a fourth person said, grinning widely, childishly, “they’re ex-lovers, and the Mad King-“

_“Appaloosa.”_

“ _King Ryan_ , King Ryan,” she hurried to correct herself, “anyway, maybe he just wants him back, and this is actually the love story of a century.” 

“You’re fuckin’ dumb,” said Barn Owl. 

“He’s right there, why don’t we ask him?” Appaloosa said sweetly, and turned to Darryl. “Are you Ryan’s _boyfriend_?” 

Darryl pursed his lips and stuttered out something that was a very unconvincing no. It was met with a ripple of laughter. 

“Your friend was right,” Zak said, before he really knew he had opened his mouth to speak, “You are dumb.” 

This didn’t really help. Appaloosa’s eyes lit up in glee and she turned that predatory, wide grin on him.

“Are _you_ his boyfriend?” she gasped, “is that why he left? The drama! The romance!” She flopped back dramatically, “a love triangle! How will Dave Norville-“

“Darryl Novak.”

“Whatever, how will he _choose_ , oh the agony!” she wailed dramatically, placing one hand across her forehead, “the agony of choice! To choose between the lap of luxury and his true love, you couldn’t _write_ better!” 

Zak felt his face heat up. 

“Oh my fucking-” Barn Owl’s friend griped, chucking the now empty bottle in her vague direction, “keep your voice down.” 

The bottle landed harmlessly in the grass, right as the person sent off for firewood returned. 

“I miss anything?” he asked, dropping the firewood in a heap on the ground. 

“Appaloosa harassing the cargo,” someone else said. He laughed and started setting up a campfire. 

Zak quietly seethed with rage. 

“I don’t know why he cares so much,” Half-Moon said after several long minutes of squabbling over nothing, “Because I don’t _have_ to.”

“You gotta wonder, though, right?” 

“I don’t.” 

“You’re boring.” 

“You’re a moron.” 

At some point a second bottle had been produced, and was getting passed around. 

“Any input, debt dodger?” someone called out, leaning back to get a good look at him. Darryl just shook his head. Zak’s shoulders were starting to feel really stiff.

“Aw, come on!” she needled, “not even a little hint?” 

“What does it even matter?” Zak asked. 

“I wasn’t asking you,” she scoffed. 

“Why?” he spat back, in spite of Darryl’s hushed attempts to get him to shut up, “you scared?” 

She laughed. “That’s big talk coming from a guy tied up to a tree.” 

“And you’re still all the way over there,” he said, “keeping your distance. Seems super confident to me.” 

There were a few seconds of tense silence. 

“What you got in your pack, freebie?” she asked, getting to her feet, “anything valuable?”

Zak tried to keep a neutral expression, but something must’ve slipped. She quirked one eyebrow up.

“That’s a yes if I ever saw one,” she said, getting to her feet. She swayed slightly. 

“Sea, don’t-“ 

“I’m just lookin’,” she said defensively, and went over to where their packs were. She picked up Darryl’s and rattled it around a little. Darryl flinched. 

“Oh yeah,” she said, watching their expressions, “That sounds valuable.” 

She gave them both a long, evaluating look, one hand on the clasp to open the pack. She withdrew it. She made her way over to the fire, pack held out at arm’s length. Zak stopped breathing. 

“Not so much talk now, huh?” she said, grin wide. The pack got brought closer to the flame. “Where’s that attitude now, big guy?” 

For a few moments, Zak wished fervently, desperately, consumingly that she’d do it. That she’d drop the explosives, the gunpowder, everything dry and flammable and volatile that they kept in their packs into the fire. He pictured the crater that it’d leave, no sign of these weird, hateful, dispassionate people. No horses or bedrolls or bones. They’d get taken out too, in the blast, but maybe it was worth it for these awful and stupid and cruel people to be immolated beyond recognition. 

He locked eyes with her, daring, daring her to drop it. 

“Sea, come on,” Half-Moon said eventually, “If there’s valuable shit in there we can sell it. We’ll go through it later once we’re somewhere dry. Don’t let it get personal or we’ll never get there. Come on, Don’t be stupid.” 

There were three long breaths of silence. Sea scoffed. 

“Fine,” she said, and carelessly threw the pack off to the side. Darryl flinched again, but nothing caught. “Fine.” 

_Well_ , Zak thought, _mission accomplished_. 

He’d distracted them from Darryl. With enough needling he would have told them, and Zak would have had to listen to the story again. How he’d tried to join the manhunters with his friend. How he’d lost so some kid with blonde hair and the hunt in his eyes and something to prove. How he’d gone back to his family of farmers on the outskirts of town. How his Mom had got sick. How he’d needed medicine. How he’d borrowed from anyone he could think of to pay for a Cleric’s visit. How it hadn’t been enough. How he’d been dragged from his bed the day after his mother’s funeral, thrown into the freezing dungeons of the castle and left there, left until-

Zak felt Darryl nudge him slightly. Zak turned to glance at him and was met with a small, sympathetic smile. 

“You’re clenching your jaw,” he said quietly. 

Zak took two deep breaths and stretched it out.

“We’ll get out of here,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get out.” 

Zak nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah.” 

* * *

The night was cold, the warmth of the fire quickly fading into a low, eerie glow. Zak felt Darryl shiver a little. 

The wildlings had settled down, having drained another bottle between them, celebrating their victory. The one posted on guard duty was slumped against a tree, head lolling every so often. 

In the light of the waxing moon, he saw Darryl glance over at him. 

Zak was watching the guard. He startled awake, looking sluggishly around, and then his head lolled forward again. Zak silently counted up to sixty, and the guard didn’t move. 

“They’re asleep,” Zak whispered, just the barest breath of sound. Darryl nodded. 

That was step one done, at least. Now they just had to get out of the ropes. He strained against them, shifting his wrists, hoping he’d find some weak point or another. 

He felt Darryl squirming next to him too, fingers moving, arms shifting awkwardly in spite of the position they were in. He frowned over at him, and just as he opened his mouth to ask the obvious, he felt something sharp press against his wrists. 

Darryl gave him a meaningful look, but they’d been friends a long time, and there was something quietly self-satisfied at the corners of his eyes. 

As quietly as he could, Zak tried to rub the thick, unwieldy rope against the knife. It was awkward and clumsy, and he nicked himself a few times, but eventually he felt the rope slacken enough for him to slide his wrists out. He shook them loose, grabbing the knife and hurriedly sawing through the ropes around his ankles. 

The knife was thin, very flat, not particularly sturdy but razor sharp. Designed to be sequestered away somewhere secretive. He resisted the urge to laugh. He knew this design. 

“I thought you said it was dumb,” Zak said in a whisper, pulling the tatters of rope off his ankles. He set to work on Darryl’s wrists, glancing down at the tip of the glasses case sticking out of his pocket. 

“ _Your_ design was dumb,” Darryl said, equally quiet, “If there’s too much stuff on it, it looks suspicious.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you made one, though,” Zak said, slicing through the rope. 

“You would have wanted to add stuff to it,” Darryl whispered back, reaching into his pocket for the glasses case. He flicked it open and pulled out his glasses, nudging them back up his nose. Zak made quick work of the rope around his ankles, handing the thin blade back. 

Darryl deftly tucked it back into the seam inside the glasses case. Difficult to see unless you were looking for it. He had to admit, it was probably better that way. 

When they’d first arrived in the Domain of the Pig-Nosed Lord, and Dan had asked them what they were good at, Zak had faltered. He was the son of a merchant, the closest his village had to a high-ranking member. He hadn’t done a day’s hard labour in his life until the manhunter training, and even that had proved too much for him. 

Darryl, who was being fussed over by an elderly lady in cleric’s robes, had mumbled something about building. Zak hadn’t thought that counted, considering all he really did was make machines that played a little tune, or flashed a light on and off. 

  
Dan had asked if he’d be able to make some kind of early warning system. Zak had said yes. 

It felt good to make things again. He’d gone into a bit of a frenzy. The third thing he’d designed had been a glasses-case-slash-multi-tool, after Darryl had lost his glasses and they only turned up again when a cart wheel ran over them with a horribly loud crunching noise. It had eleven functions. He’d proudly shown it off to Darryl, who had laughed kindly and suggested a slightly more subtle design. 

Something about the sight of it made his heart thud painfully in his chest. Maybe it was where they were. Maybe it was how it had been used. Maybe it was the memories that came with the case. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t have time to unpack it. 

Zak got to his feet and pulled Darryl up after him, glancing furtively around the camp. One of the wildlings paused, their snoring hitching and tripping, then evening back out into the regular rhythm of sleep. 

The horses were dozing too, on the edges of the group. 

The solution was obvious. Zak glanced over at Darryl, who seemed to agree. 

“I’ll get the packs,” Zak said, “if you tack up a horse?” Darryl nodded once and crept silently over the soft ground towards a horse. 

Zak, as carefully as he could, snuck past the sleeping bodies, slipping by the guard who drunkenly dozed against a tree branch. He grabbed his sword, strapping it back to his belt where it belonged. He picked up the packs slowly, freezing when the clinking and clattering made Sea murmur sleepily, seeming to come to the edge of consciousness. 

Zak held his breath. 

She rolled over and curled up tighter against the cold. He sighed in relief. 

He turned back towards Darryl, who had managed to wake a horse without any fanfare. He was slipping a saddle over its back, the horse huffing out clouds of breath in the cold night air. 

As he held the pack in his hands, standing just behind Sea, he couldn’t help but remember the image of her lit menacingly from below, bag full of gunpowder held over the fire. She had unknowingly held his life in her hands, all of their lives. He’d been powerless. 

It had been humiliating. 

He tried to push it down, to suppress the bubbling, burning, smoking shame and anger and hatred and magnetic desire for revenge, revenge, _revenge_. 

He got back to Darryl just as he was slipping the bridle around the horse’s head. Darryl smiled at him thinly. Zak forced one back. Darryl paused his motions for a split second in the tacking up of the horse. 

They’d known each other a long time. Darryl knew something was up. He knew that Zak knew that Darryl knew, as well. 

There was a question in the set of his eyebrows. 

Zak wordlessly turned back to the circle of sleeping wildlings. The acrid smoke of humiliation was still rising in him, choking him, stinging the back of his throat and getting into his eyes. 

There was a firm hand on his arm. He turned back towards Darryl, who had a deadly serious look in his eyes. 

“No, Zak,” he hissed, “don’t risk it, let’s just-“ 

A wildling stirred, stretching and then flopping over onto his front.

The memory of being slung over the withers of a horse, mud kicked into his face, rumbled somewhere low in his chest. 

He wanted to make them pay. 

“They’ll just come after us, Bad,” he said, and the excuse sounded flimsy to his own ears, “We gotta stop them somehow.” 

“What are you even-“ Darryl started, but Zak was already slinging off his pack, pulling out a length of string, and a half-finished block of explosive. Darryl shook his head. 

“You can’t- that’s so _crazy_ dangerous I-“ he was stuttering. 

Zak knew he was right, that properly weighing this up in terms of a risk to reward would suggest that they shouldn’t. 

Zak was tired. 

Zak was _furious_. 

“It’ll take two minutes,” he said, slinging his pack over back of the horse. It started forward a little anxiously, then stopped, shaking its head a little. Darryl was still fixing him in place with a weird, judgemental, anxious look. 

Zak knelt down to offer Darryl a leg up onto the horse. 

They stared silently at each other, tense, until Zak’s shoulders loosened all at once. He took the leg up, gracefully swinging onto the horse’s back and settling in. 

“Two minutes,” Darryl said. Zak nodded. 

He crept forwards again, through the sleeping wildlings, towards the dying embers of the campfire. Using his foot, he kicked some of the more dangerous sparks out of the way, sending dirt hissing into the fire. He paused, listening carefully, but nobody moved. 

He stuck the little parcel into the ground, embedding a fuse and running it back, tying knots in it every so often to give them precious seconds of extra time to get out of the blast zone. 

He ran it back next to Darryl and the horse, and knelt down, flint and steel in his hand, when he heard shuffling. 

He looked up and watched as Appaloosa pushed herself up onto her elbows, and blinked sleepily at them. 

He watched in slow motion, as realisation dawned on her face. 

He didn’t think. 

He didn’t have time to think. 

He didn’t have to think. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. 

He spun and slapped the horse’s rump, the horse that Darryl was mounted on. The horse cried, loudly, startling the rest of the camp, and before Darryl had time to yell at him he was careening away over the plains, the horse skittish, the horse nervous enough that no matter what Darryl did it was on its course. 

Darryl was out of the picture. Good enough. 

Appaloosa was yelling, getting to her feet, and Zak was drawing his sword as the rest of the wildlings stirred, as the other horses bucked and yelled, as one broke away from the tree it was tied to. He was swinging, parrying, kept on the back foot. He slammed his bodyweight into Appaloosa and she was knocked to the ground, uncoordinated from the liquor and the sleep. 

Zak dove for the flint and steel, but it was kicked out of the way by a larger wildling, he wasn’t sure who, but they managed to get a good kick at the side of his head before he managed to scramble to his feet. The wildling lunged at him uncoordinated and sloppy, the movements easy enough to predict that Zak neatly sidestepped away. His opponent turned, but before he could make a grab at Zak a horse came barrelling past, slamming into his side, screaming, crying, bucking. 

Zak took advantage of the chaos and went for the flint and steel again, his hand closing around the sharp piece of flint easily even in the darkness of the night. He cast around for the steel but felt the ache of a dull blade slam against his shoulder padding. He turned just in time to duck out of the way of another swing from Half-Moon, one that would have caught his neck if he hadn’t been careful. She swung again, yelling with frustration, and Zak parried and blocked. 

Her axe, made from sharpened stone, met his steel sword and sent a showering of sparks out around them. 

Zak had an idea. 

He let himself be pushed back towards the fuse, which had been jostled and undone slightly, but a half a glance to the side told him enough. It was still attached at the explosive. 

He parried back and forth, exchanging swings with Half-Moon over the fuse, glancing down furtively now and then to check- 

Another swing, sparks flew, and one caught on the fuse. 

It buzzed down the line. 

_Twenty._

Zak ducked out of the way of another swing from Half-Moon and ran. 

It didn’t matter where. He was counting down in his head, sprinting over the wide plains away from the explosive. 

_Fifteen._

Maybe they’d noticed. Someone was following him, giving chase, yelling. 

_Ten._

It had come undone from the explosive, probably. In the distance, the drumming of hooves matched the thumping of his heart. 

_Five._

He dropped to the ground, face down in the dirt, both hands over his neck, arms covering his head. 

_One._

There was half a second of horrible silence, and then a shattering _boom_ that knocked the air out of Zak’s lungs. Screaming. Chaos. The deafening cracking of trees, the showering of debris. 

A chunk of something landed heavily on his leg and he muffled his cry of pain in the grass. 

When it seemed like things had settled he let himself glance over his shoulder, at the crater in the earth, the horses fleeing in every direction, people chasing after them. 

Half-Moon had fallen, but was pushing herself to her feet, blood streaming down her nose, eyes wild and furious. 

Zak pushed himself to his feet, nearly falling back face down in the dirt when he tried to put any weight on his right leg, stumbling through the mud. 

Maybe before he would have been able to outrun her. As it was, stuttering unsteadily over the plains, he didn’t like his chances. 

His heart dropped when he saw a horseman riding towards him, in one piece, not a scratch on him, and it would have been the end if the horseman hadn’t nudged his glasses up his nose in that achingly familiar way. 

An arm was outstretched. 

“Skeppy!” Darryl yelled, “jump!” 

Gritting his teeth against the sharp ache in his leg, Zak jumped, fingers just barely reaching, just barely brushing-

Darryl caught him, like he always did, and hauled him up over the horse. He was slung over the front, just resting against the front of the saddle.

He watched what remained of the camp, as they rode away noisily into the night. He stared with smug satisfaction, at the crater in the earth, at the horses running in every direction followed by the people, at the still running figure of Half-Moon getting further and further away. He slumped forwards against the horse. 

He let out a shaking breath, maybe a laugh, maybe not, and he didn’t think he imagined the relieved giggle that bubbled up from Darryl. 

* * *

They rode through the night and into the morning, until the horse started flagging beneath them. Darryl pulled the horse to a stop, its flanks white with sweat, and slid out of the saddle. 

Zak pushed himself down to his feet, stumbling into Darryl as his leg refused to cooperate. Darryl wrapped his arms around Zak protectively, mouth already open to ask what was wrong, what had happened, was he dying, what-

“I got hit by like, a rock, or a branch, or something,” Darryl said placatingly, levering himself into a slightly more upright position. The jabs the wildlings had gotten in were already scabbing over. Minor wounds. Minor damage. 

The leg was maybe a bit more concerning, but he was still riding the revenge high. 

They’d escaped. They were together. They’d made the wildlings pay for what they’d done. 

Darryl was holding him out at arm’s length, checking him over, something deeply worried and wounded in his expression. Zak put his hands on Darryl’s forearms, grinning widely, not bothering to hide his glee. 

“I’ll be fine, Darryl,” he said, trying not to sound half as manic as he felt, “I’ll be fine.” 

He blew out a breath and wrapped Zak in a tight, desperate hug. 

Zak clutched right back. 

“Don’t do that again,” he said into Zak’s shoulder. “Don’t do that again.” 

They’d been friends a long time. Zak didn’t need to ask what, exactly, it was he wasn’t supposed to do again. 

Dan had laughed about it, how glued to the hip they always seemed to be. How much they hated being apart, how every reunion was like something out of an epic poem. 

They didn’t mind. 

Zak tried his level best not to remember that first time, that first reunion. 

It had been years. Zak had failed the manhunter trials, been relegated to guard duty. The pay was fine. The people were fine. The room and board was fine. The work was… He couldn’t complain.

He couldn’t help but feel like he was owed more - more glory, more renown, more satisfaction. 

The pay was fine. He’d failed the manhunter trials. He couldn’t complain. 

One of the guards at the debtor’s jail had some kind of freak accident, and they needed someone else to fill in his shift. Skeppy had been picked, and he hadn’t thought anything of it, until-

Until he descended the stairs, and saw shivering on the cold, bare stone floor his childhood friend. Darryl Novak, who’d always been bright and cheery, and who was then an awful shade of grey. 

They met each other’s eyes, and Zak had been terrified to think what Darryl saw. A strong, shining guard in second-hand armour, thoughtlessly following the orders of the Mad King. 

Zak had just seen the person he loved most in life sitting emaciated and hunted in a cage. 

They had known each other a long time. They didn’t need to speak. 

They were getting out. 

Zak had heard enough rumours about a portal from travellers and wisemen who passed through his village. That, and the chests full of valuable obsidian his dad traded in, and the cell key he’d been given meant it had been trivially easy to sneak down one dark night, and construct a portal right there in Darryl’s cell, and escape out into the nether. A few drops of water broke the portal, and they’d began their wanderings.

Darryl had been too sick to make the journey entirely himself. Zak had carried him on his back for most of the distance, praying, praying, praying they were going somewhere other than a sharp drop into a lake of lava. 

Each step had been a fresh humiliation. A reminder of the time he had wasted serving the Mad King, chasing some stupid idea of social standing. The whole time Darryl had been starving, his mother dying. 

He tried not to think about it. He _hated_ thinking about it. 

Every separation and reunion made him think about it. 

They stood there in the early morning, clutching each other with shaking hands whilst the horse grazed nearby, and they thought about it.

* * *

* * *

Getting Tommy out of the ravine was an ordeal that Techno had no intention or desire to repeat. Two hours, maybe more, climbing hand over foot, Tommy slung over his back and groaning in pain in his ears. Behind him, Tubbo struggled up with three packs slung over his body like an overladen mule.

It was gruelling. Inch by bloody inch, they pulled themselves from the ravine, grazing their hands on the rough stone. By the time Techno pulled them both over the top of the ravine it was getting close to nightfall. He eased Tommy off his shoulders and turned back to the edge, offering Tubbo a hand and hauling him up onto flat ground as well. They sat on the grass, breathing heavily and listening to Tommy’s pained groans for several long minutes. 

A plan. They needed a plan. 

Techno grabbed his pack and rooted around in it for the map, spreading it out on the grass and placing a compass at one corner to weigh it down. 

“Techno?” Tubbo started. Techno glanced up at Tubbo’s flushed, sweaty face. He was picking at his chapped lips.

“Don’t do that,” he said, “you’ll make yourself bleed.” He turned back to the map. 

“Techno, is Tommy- like, is he going…” Techno closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“He’s going to be fine,” he said, turning his attention back to the map. _Firm, steadfast, steady, calm_. “If the bite hasn’t killed him yet, it’s not going to kill him any time soon.” 

“But…we…” 

“Tubbo,” Techno said, maybe a little too harshly. He looked up and Tubbo flinched back slightly. “It’s going to be fine.” 

He looked back down at the map, trying to focus, trying to ignore the retching and groaning from Tommy, trying to ignore the bubbling guilt in his chest. He glanced back up at Tubbo, who was picking at his lips again. They made eye contact, and Tubbo guiltily dropped his hand. Techno nodded his head towards Tommy and he was up in a flash, making his way over to his friend, muttering sort-of soothing half sentences. 

They’d keep each other occupied. He turned his focus back to the map. 

It wasn’t hard to work out where they were; the Ravine of Cavecross closed up into the Cavecross Caverns, and they were right next to that. There were a smattering of villages nearby, the closest one being the Village of Onyxfall. It seemed too easy. _On a main road. Wadzee’d told them they were being patrolled, Onyxfall was clearly on a trade route, the name suggested it was near a mine, and-_

“You’re gonna be fine,” Tubbo was saying, “Techno said so.” 

_Near a mine, and if there was one thing that was going to be patrolled by guards it was a mine. The Village of Sampson was maybe two and a half miles further away, with Tommy they moved slightly slower so that was another hour, hour and a half off-_

“Hey, it’s gonna leave a cool scar at least, right? I bet you could lie and say that it came from something cool.” 

_Hour and a half off, they didn’t have much daylight left, they’d be walking through the night most likely and that was on a half-a-guess that they’d be avoiding hunters that way, and he’s killed them, he’s killed all three of them, he’s killed them-_

He rolled the map back up and stuffed it into his pack, slinging it over one shoulder. He got to his feet and did his best not to loom over Tommy and Tubbo, pulling the cowl up over his nose and mouth. 

“Village of Sampson’s our best bet,” he said. “Two hours’ walk. We’re losing daylight.” 

Tubbo scrambled to his feet and slung the two packs over his shoulder, and Techno hoisted Tommy up onto his back. 

Tubbo opened his mouth, looked like he wanted to ask a question, but Techno wordlessly stalked past him, more than ready to get going, to take the nervous energy he felt vibrating inside him and put it to good use. 

He’d always been that way. He’d get underfoot at his parents’ stable, distracted, clumsy, and his father would wordlessly hand him a saddle and point at a horse. He’d ride then, as fast as he could, aimlessly over the wide desert. Some days he’d get as far as the savannah, some days even further, to the cliff’s edge of the neighbouring mesa. 

It never really mattered, as long as he was going somewhere. 

God, he missed Rocket. 

They pressed on wordlessly. The shadows grew long and thin, and the light started to fade. Tommy started to shake, pressing his clammy face into the back of Techno’s neck, occasionally letting out these terrible shivering moans. 

Seeing a village through the trees had never been such a simultaneous relief and cause for concern.

He paused, and saw Tubbo stop abruptly in his periphery. 

If they got caught there was no way they’d all make it out. Not with Techno carrying Tommy. Not with Tubbo unable to draw his crossbow. 

Well. Technically they weren’t looking for Tommy. Or Tubbo. The way Phil had told it they’d hidden away in the hay-cart in search of adventure, and the only reason he hadn’t sent them home is because they’d already entered the wilds by the time he’d found them. Their departure from the Mad-King’s fiefdom hadn’t been quite as dramatic as his.

They wouldn’t be recognised. 

“Swap,” Techno said, easing Tommy off his shoulders. “Follow behind but not too close, whistle if you see a manhunter.” 

“But…wouldn’t it be safer if I went in first?” he offered.

_Tubbo going in first, Tubbo alone against a tide of manhunters, Tubbo’s corpse face down in the village square, Techno having to go home and ask Phil for the mother’s address, tell Phil sorry but Theo’s dead and it was his fault, it was all his fault-_

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Tubbo,” Techno said, his voice steely and cold. “That was an order.”

Tubbo nodded reluctantly, pulling one of Tommy’s arms around his shoulders and supporting his weight. The night was encroaching, slowly but surely, and the gathering dark made Techno feel just a little better. The three packs slung awkwardly across his body, he cautiously made his way through the town.

It was a small village, which meant good things, which meant that they were less likely to show up on the Mad King’s radar as somewhere that needed a guard detail, which meant they were more likely to have livestock roaming around so if worst came to worst they could steal a bucketful of milk and book it. 

People were giving him a wide berth, he noticed. Mothers ushering sons out of his path. As he came to the centre of town, next to the old dented bell, there was someone waiting for him. 

“Not many people come through here,” she said, cutting straight to the point. Poised. Calm. She stood straight and her hands were clasped behind her back. Her grey hair was tied back in a low bun. 

“We’re travelling,” he said, keeping his voice as low as he could. _Don’t say more than you need. Don’t reveal any weak spots until you have to._

“We have no room for you, traveller,” she said, cooly. There was something about the emphasis she put on traveller that made her sound suspicious. 

_Pieces on a chessboard. What is she thinking? Three armed strangers appear at the close of day, dressed strangely, one hiding his face._

“My friend is injured,” he said, watching her face carefully. Her eyes widened for half a second, and then dipped back into the carefully neutral expression. 

“A shame, then,” she said, “that the clerics have been taken.” Thinly veiled hostility in her voice. 

_Three armed strangers appear at the close of day, she thinks we’re manhunters._

“I didn’t say anything about clerics.”

“You implied.” 

He cast a quick glance around the town, listening. _Nobody had looked injured. Nobody had looked sick. The anxiety about clerics clear in her voice. Three armed strangers appear at the close of day, she thinks we’re manhunters, and tells us there are no clerics here._

_There are clerics here._

“We don’t want any trouble,” Techno tried, “Just some milk and somewhere to rest and we’ll be on our way.” 

“Which way would that be?” she asked, her eyes harsh.

“Does it matter?” 

_Three armed strangers appear at the close of day, she thinks we’re manhunters, and tells us there are no clerics here. There are clerics here. She thinks we’re manhunters, so there are no manhunters. All I have to do is convince her we’re not manhunters, that we’re not with the Mad King-_

“Perhaps you should return to your capital,” she said coldly. “Your friend can find help there.”

Techno huffed a laugh. His heart was beating loudly in his chest. Behind him, Tommy gagged.

It was a risk. It was the only thing he could think of.

He reached up and pulled the cowl down from his face. Her eyes widened, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. 

He felt eyes on him, watching from the windows, from back alleys, from around corners. He drew himself up to his full height and raised his chin, and for two fleeting seconds felt every inch the leader people thought he was. 

“You’re…” she choked. “The pig…”

“Yes,” said Technoblade.

She swallowed nervously, that painful hope in her eyes that he really should have been used to seeing by now. 

“Are you…” she started, and cleared her throat. “Are you…are you really going to…” 

_Save us? Kill the Mad King? End decades of crushing rule?_

Technoblade nodded once. 

“My friend is injured,” he tried again. “A spider. Some kind of poison.”

He felt dozens of eyes on him. 

“I’m asking you to take a risk,” he said, trying to be gentle. “I know that. Your duty is to your people. We’re on a journey to kill the Mad King, liberate his nation. We… _I_ cannot do it alone. We need help. We need a cleric.” 

The woman stood, watching him in silence for several long seconds. 

“I will take you to Ari,” she said eventually, “and you will not speak of this again.” 

Dan nodded once and followed her through the town, up a gentle slope to a small, nondescript home. She rang the bell once and waited, and eventually someone dressed in robes came bustling forward, letting them in. Tubbo and Tommy were ushered inside. 

Techno felt like he should go with them, but lingered anyway. 

“Thank you,” he said. The woman offered him half a smile. 

“You can repay me by killing the Mad King.” 

She turned and walked back down the hill. Above them, the north star was just barely starting to shine through the darkening sky. 

Techno sat on the front step, exhausted suddenly. He pulled out his sword and whetstone and started to sharpen it, just for something to do. Time passed, the night got thicker and darker, and eventually the Cleric made their way out of the house, nearly tripping over Techno in the process. They offered him a small smile and hurried down the path before he could say anything else. 

There were familiar footsteps behind him, and Tubbo was at his side, lowering himself down onto the step next to him. 

“You were right,” he said, smiling kindly at Techno. “He’s fine.” 

Techno hummed non-comically in response. 

“Like, there’ll be some scars there, but he seemed kind of excited about it to be honest.” 

Techno snorted an amused breath of air. They sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the sharp noise of his sword against a whetstone.

“The village was a good call,” he offered, and Techno worked out what he was doing. One day he’d stop being surprised at how perceptive Tubbo was.

“It was my dumb idea that got him hurt in the first place,” he grumbled. 

“I thought it was a good idea.” 

“Okay,” Techno said, placatingly. 

“It was! I don’t know how you could have known there’d be like, spiders-“

“Yeah, spiders in caves, the shock of the century.” 

“But we killed _most_ of the spiders, and-“ 

“And I shouldn’t have pushed our luck,” Techno said, levelling what he hoped was an intimidating glare at him. Tubbo seemed unfazed. 

“I don’t know why you act like this all the time,” Tubbo said, “you make one minor mistake-“ 

“One minor mistake is all it takes, Theo,” he said, nodding his head towards the building. “The Mad King won’t make any. We can’t afford any either.” 

“But we made one,” he said, “like you said, we made one minor mistake, and we’re fine.” 

“We’ve gotta get to the capital first,” he said. 

“Why can’t you just take a complement?” Tubbo said, sounding properly exasperated. Techno snorted a laughter. 

“I’m serious. You’re so…worried all the time, about being like, the great and fearsome Pig-Nosed Lord. You don’t have to be great, o-or fearsome, or any of it. You’re human too. All you really have to be is like, kind.” 

Techno looked at Theo, sitting next to him, his face in shadow. How simple he made it all sound. All you had to be was _kind_ to run a nation. None of this stuff about projecting your best self, about thinking every plan over from every angle to make sure it was the best choice. Nothing about the people you had to keep safe, the concessions you had to make, how carefully you needed to scrutinise yourself all day, every day, as you played the balancing act between being powerful and just and fair and loved. None of the exhaustion. Just kindness. 

What a world Tubbo lived in. 

Techno smiled at him. “Okay.” _Time to change the topic._ “There are beds in there?” 

Tubbo nodded. “Four,” he said meaningfully. 

“Get some rest in a real bed then,” he said. “I’ll be in in a little while. Wanna watch the stars.”

Tubbo looked at him for several long seconds, then got to his feet. “Goodnight.” 

“Night,” Techno said, and listened to the door shut behind him. 

He looked up as the stars faded into view, as the street lamps in the village were snuffed out and people tucked themselves into bed. He was exhausted, but he felt like he couldn’t sleep. It was his fault they were here, ultimately, it was his responsibility to make sure nothing snuck up on them in the night. Maybe they’d get sold out. Maybe there were manhunters lurking in the corners of the village, waiting for the right moment to strike. They were in the shadows, somewhere, surely, watching for the moment he let his guard down. He was exhausted, but he felt wide awake. He told himself he’d go in when he felt tired, no point in lying awake in bed until then.

He sat on the front step, and sharpened his sword, and waited for the itching in his eyes to set in and send him inside, and when the sun rose over the sparse forest it took him by surprise. 

* * *

* * *

Nick shrugged off his pack, glancing up the smooth trunk of a towering oak tree. 

“I think we might be slightly off course,” he said, rolling up his sleeves, “We were supposed to be coming to the edges of the forest like, yesterday, I think. Just gonna get a vantage point.” 

“Well, just be careful,” Clay said, the corners of his lips twitching up. “I think I saw a sparrow-“

“Ah, fuck off.“

Clay snickered quietly to himself. It settled something in George. 

It had been a week since the ridge. George’s arm still hurt if he turned it the wrong way but the break hadn’t been bad and it was mostly back to healthy. Clay and Nick had gone back to shoving each other after a couple of days, their various stabs and breaks and cuts easily forgotten. The physical ones, at least. 

They hadn’t really talked about it. After that first night, when George had told him he didn’t have to, they hadn’t mentioned it again. 

What was there to say to someone who had dealt with something like that? 

George often found himself alone with his thoughts, having the most vivid daydreams as they walked mostly in silence. He couldn’t help but remember the moment _his_ whole life had changed, saw it in the third person sometimes. Picking netherwart from the crop behind the tower, when he looked up because he had heard the hoofbeats and smelled the smoke and seen the flickering orange flames burning, burning, burning the thatched roofs of his village. If he had met himself then, what was there to say? _It gets better? I know how you feel? I’m sorry?_

Empty platitudes that couldn’t graze the enormity of what had happened. 

There was nothing to say. 

So they had said nothing. 

Clay gave Nick a leg up and turned to George, the mask smiling flatly back at him. He was selfishly grateful that it was there. He didn’t have to think about the hurt, or the loneliness, or the guilt, or-

“Does this place seem, like, kinda familiar to you?” Clay asked, startling George out of his introspection. George looked around at the tall oak trees.

“It’s a forest,” he said dryly, “like, the same forest we’ve been walking through for a week. Of course it’s familiar.” 

Clay laughed a little, self consciously, “no, like, I know. But there’s like, something, I dunno…” 

“Familiar?” 

“Don’t give me that look! I was a _manhunter_ , George, I probably walked over like, the _whole_ kingdom, it’s not that weird to think I might have been here before.” 

“Sapnap! Clay’s lost his mind!” he called up. 

Clay shoved him, laughed ‘I have not’, but in amongst it all George couldn’t deny the deja vu. Something about the arrangement of the trees, maybe. The light. The way the branches hung and the beaten earth. 

They’d been in a forest for a week. It was probably nothing. 

“I was right!” Nick called down, “We’re like a day off course!” 

“And whose fault is that?” Clay yelled back. 

“I dunno, ask the guy who tripped head over ass down a hill-“ 

It was a risky joke, but Clay laughed quietly anyway. 

“Your concern is _so_ cute,” George said. 

Nick laughed, and pulled himself up slightly higher. “I think I can see the lake! We’re heading too far West. We need to-“ 

They waited a little while. 

“What?” Clay called up, posture easy and relaxed, but one hand was on the hilt of his sword. George froze, listening carefully to the gentle noises of the forest. 

Nick started to climb back down the tree. He slid down the final few feet of the trunk, grazing his hands. 

“What was it?” Clay asked, voice raising into anxiety. Nick didn’t respond, slinging his pack over his shoulder and pressing on. 

He was walking in the same way they’d been going. George and Clay shared a look. 

“Isn’t this still…” Clay said, taking a few hesitant steps after him, glancing over his shoulder at George.

“I thought you said-“ George said, following Nick as he blundered through the forest, “we were going too far west.” 

Nick responded by picking up the pace. George followed along at a jog, Clay hot on his heels. 

“Nick, what are you-“ he stumbled over an errant root, cursing under his breath. Nick didn’t even turn back, just started running, explaining nothing, George helplessly following and trying to ignore a deep sinking twisting feeling in his gut that he had been here before, he had been here before, he had been here before-

He ran smack into Nick’s back and they both stuttered forwards, catching their feet. He heard Clay slide to a sudden stop behind them, breathing heavily. 

George grabbed Nick by the shoulders and turned him around, ready to demand an answer, but stopped before he could say anything. Nick’s eyes were wide, dark. His face was pale, sweaty from the run, clammy from the air. 

Nick turned over his shoulder and George followed his eyes. 

They’d come to the edge of the tree line, standing on the outskirts of a ruined village. The huts, made from stone, were falling in on themselves, and the smell of rot hung heavy in the air. The ground was still stained with ashes, presumably from what had once been the thatched roofs. The cleric’s tower lay in ruin, tipped over backwards, nothing more than a pile of rubble against a building that had long-since been abandoned. 

George’s hand slipped off Nick’s shoulders as he took a careful step closer. 

“George?” Clay asked, his voice tight. 

A little gust of wind picked up, and the lonely clicking of forgotten wind chimes shook something loose in him. A bucket bumped noisily against the low stone wall of the well that he’d been pushed into when he was seven, and the road that led towards the shepherd’s had been torn up by hooves from that day a million years or maybe twelve months ago and-

It was… 

It was what was left of… 

“It’s…” he said, rooted to the spot. His mouth felt dry. 

Nick faltered forwards into the town. George distantly recognised it as a bad idea. 

They needed to leave. They were already off course. Whatever they’d meet here wouldn’t help anyone. 

He was rooted to the ground where he stood. Clay swum into view, mask pushed up onto his forehead and eyebrows tilted up in concern. George blinked helplessly up at him.

“It’s Windhallow.” 

His eyes widened, and he glanced around. George took a moment to refamiliarise himself with the town. 

They were standing at the edge of the treeline by the smaller square, the one with the well. The huntsman had lived in the cottage Nick was walking up to, the cottage which was now just two half-walls, connected at the corner, a low pile of rocks. 

_(Eliza, the huntsman’s eldest daughter, has been Nick’s first crush. She’d rejected him very kindly, delicately pointing out that she was fifteen and he was seven, but Nick had cried about it all day, sitting on the kitchen floor of George’s house, saying that he was tall enough to be fifteen if he tried, and George was standing there in a panic trying to work out why it had mattered so much, and the smell of beef stew, and the ink-stained table, and-)_

It was just two half-walls, connected at the corner. It was rubble now. It was ruin. 

George watched Nick run his hand along the rough stone. Another gust of wind picked up and ran through the valley, and the bucket banged loudly against the crumbling wall of the well.

_(George was older by three and a half years but Nick had always been bigger, and they’d been five and nine respectively, and George had been telling Nick that he was actually secretly the Herobrine, and he was building up his strength to blow up the whole world. He hadn’t thought that Nick still believed in the Herobrine, and he certainly hadn’t thought that Nick was convinced, and so when Nick yelled at him to shut up and had pushed George he hadn’t been ready. He’d tumbled right down into the well, and people were yelling, and Sanpap was screaming, and he was freezing cold, treading water, and looking up at the mouldy wooden roof that covered the well, and-)_

George screwed his eyes shut. Too many memories. Too many ghosts. He opened his eyes and what remained of Windhallow was still there. Nick was walking past the mostly destroyed Cleric’s tower, the stone and wood collapsed backwards over where the Netherwart farm had been, all that remained was the house at its base.

_(The Cleric’s tower was strictly off limits, they’d been told, because Clerics need to concentrate, but did that really matter when they had a point to prove and a sack full of smuggled fruit? They’d climbed it one evening and watched the sunset, George seventeen and three weeks into his Cleric training, Nick fourteen and furious with the world. They’d secretly climbed up to the top of the tower and sat there as the sun set, and George had complained about all the different names for the bones in the hand, and Nick had complained about his Grandpa acting like he was just some dumb kid, and the fruit had been sweet, and the clouds had been wispy and the light had been perfect, and they’d been so reluctant to admit that they were happy, and-)_

Nick was walking a familiar route; past the Shepherd’s house, towards the main square, turning left to take the shortcut through the candlemaker’s backyard.

“Sapnap,” George said, but he was already vaulting the fence. 

“Nick, don’t, come on,” he said, following. 

It felt familiar. It felt alien. It was like whilst he was gone, the wind and the rain and the movement of the earth had moved everything too far left. He felt too far left of himself. 

_(Racing each other home from the schoolhouse, vaulting over the fence, lauding the whole way home, and-)_

“Nick!” George yelled, picking up the pace as they burst out into the main square. Nick was still doggedly pressing on, making his way towards the winding road that lead to-

( _George had been eight when his mother had told him that they’d be getting a new neighbour. His name was Nick and he was quite little, and both his parents had been taken away from him. Mr. Faraday down the street was Nick’s grandpa and so he’d be moving in with him, and George had to be nice to him because moving is a big change. George had stood on his tip-toes at the window and watched the street. A kid with dark hair, wearing a too-large leather jacket and worrying some kind of security blanket, or apron maybe, in one hand, the other in the old wrinkled hand of Mr. Faraday. They’d stared at each other through the window, and later that day George had gone over to ask if he wanted to play explorers in the woods with him. Nick had blinked up at him and asked what that meant and George said he didn’t know. The afternoon had been warm and bright and sunny and they’d wandered out into the woods. George showed Nick the stream and told him that there was a magic fish in it and they had to catch it. They’d gotten their clothes drenched and laughed and ran and grown and fought and pushed and shoved and grown and ran and laughed and laughed and grown and grown and grown, and it was here in this square where at the breaking of dawn Nick had dragged him from bed and said he was going out to look for the Pig-Nosed lord, fifteen and furious at the world, and George had watched him leave, and-)_

George dashed out in front of Nick and put a hand on his chest, holding him back. Nick glanced down at him, the bandanna cut from his mother’s apron still tied firmly around his head, black leather jacket taken from his father’s closet still warm around his shoulders. 

Nick’s hands flexed where they were balled up at his sides. 

“Let me through, George,” he said, with all the menace and testosterone he could manage, but his voice was shaking. 

George felt the eyes of his family home on his back. 

“Nick, it’s only going to upset you,” he said, trying to be firm but understanding, “let’s go, there’s nothing for us here anymore.” 

Nick swatted George’s arm out of the way. “Fuck you, man. How are you so fucking calm about this?” 

“ _What?_ ” George asked, “What the hell are you - Of course this upsets me, this was my home too! I was _here_ when this happened, what-“

“So what, just cause I wasn’t _here_ that doesn’t mean-“ 

“What the _fuck_ has gotten into you?” George asked, and he knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he’d said it. 

“What the fuck has gotten into _me?_ ” Nick said, taking a step forward. “What the fuck has gotten into _you?_ ” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Nick gestured around them, at the piles of rubble that had once been homes and schoolhouses and guesthouses and town halls and places where people had lived and breathed and loved and-

“Look around, idiot! We’re all that’s left of Windhallow now, _this_ is what manhunters do, they burn and they kill and they raze. If we die it all dies with us, and _you_ ,” Nick said, giving George a sharp shove that pushed him back a step, “ _you_ keep putting yourself in the line of fire.” 

“I keep doing _what?”_

“How can you look at this, at what they’re fucking capable of, and still think it’s a good idea for you to go right to the castle and just fucking _hand_ yourself over?” Another shove. George felt his temper rising, in spite of himself. He batted Nick’s hand away. 

“Yeah, I do!” 

“Then you’re fucking dumber than you look.” 

“It’s that or send Clay in alone-“ 

“ _Don’t_ -“ Clay said, wearily, off to one side. He had his hands up in surrender. 

“Clay can look after himself.” Nick said, something burning in the back of his gaze. “You can’t.” 

George saw red. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he spat, “where do you fucking get off? What do you think I was fucking doing for the three years-“ 

“Don’t-“ Nick growled, giving George another sharp shove, “don’t-“ 

“Don’t push me,” George said, holding up a warning finger, the words spilling out of him at an alarming rate, “don’t fucking push me, and don’t get all pissed at me for something _you_ did, something _I_ told you not to do. I’m not a fucking child, Sapnap, and I was able to keep myself alive for a whole _three_ years, at least one of them wanted by the Mad King. You keep acting like I’m a liability, or a burden-“ 

“It’s cause you _are._ We’d all be better off if you’d just fucking stayed at home.” 

George was breathing heavily, like he’d just run a mile. The world was blurring at its edges. 

There were several long, tense seconds of silence. 

“I think,” Clay said, hesitantly, “we should all just take a deep breath-“ 

“Fuck off,” Nick said. 

“Woah, okay-“

“Leave him alone,” George said, shoving Nick a little, “he’s been a better friend than you are.” 

“ _George!”_ Clay hissed. 

“Oh yeah, real great friend, spent how many months trying to kill you? Letting you get by on _pity?_ ” 

“At least he was fucking _here,_ Sapnap! Unlike some of the people I’ve met who think it’s okay to abandon their friends, and family, and everyone they ever knew, only to be _surprised_ when they come back and everything’s all broken. That’s always been your fucking problem, you can never look outside yourself for long enough to think that maybe, _maybe_ what you’re doing is selfish-“

“Don’t- You- You have no _idea_ what I lo-“

“Oh, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you lost,” George said, gesturing at the rubble around them, “But I can move on, I want this all to _mean something_ , not like you, who just wants to go off and be the great lonely hero, because you don’t _care_ , you never _cared-_ “ 

The rest of his tirade was cut off suddenly when Nick launched himself at him. They went down heavily onto the dusty ground, George trying to wrestle out of Nick’s crushing grip, yanking at his hair and bringing tears to his eyes. George was scrambling, and this was familiar too, the scrapping, the squirming, biting at whatever was closest to his mouth. They rolled a little distance,Nick pushing himself up a little, pinning George to the ground with one hand, reeling the other one back, a closed fist, raised high in the air. 

Clay was there suddenly, a blur of yellow, grabbing Nick by the back of his collar and yanking him back off George. Nick got to his feet, yelling something, but Clay was there, and he was bigger and stronger than George, and from the first day they’d spoke he’d been practiced at getting George out of problems he’d gotten himself into. 

They yelled at each other. George wasn’t really paying attention. He propped himself up on his elbows, breathing heavily, watching as the energy left Nick in a single breath. He turned on his heel and stalked away. 

Away from his old house, at least. George would count that as a win.

He flopped back into the dirt and dug the heels of his hands into his eye. Weird colours and shapes started to dissolve into view, and it was all he had to think about for several blessedly long seconds. He kind of wanted to cry. He felt like he couldn’t even if he tried. 

Footsteps crunched over the dirt, pausing by his shoulder. George slid one hand out of the way, the dark spots fading to reveal Clay, crouching next to him, something kind and open and sad on his face. 

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “You’ll get cold.” 

Another gust of wind picked up and ran through the town. It cut right through him, right to his bone. 

He took Clay’s calloused, warm, familiar, rough hand and pulled himself to his feet. Clay steered him with one hand on his shoulder towards a nearby house that was still most-of-the-way in one piece. 

_(It had belonged to Mrs. Helen, who had been nearly a hundred, blind in both eyes, deaf in one ear. She mostly sat in her chair and spun yarn for the Shepherd, and people brought her things to eat. George had asked her one day how she hadn’t died yet, when he was still too young to know what empathy was or how that was a terrible thing to say. She had cackled to herself and said it was because people looked after each other, because people were kind, because there wasn’t anything more reliable than the kindness of strangers.)_

George kind of wanted to laugh. He kind of wanted to cry. 

In the moments before Clay pushed the door open, George felt his throat close up. The thought offinding her desiccated corpse, still sitting, still spinning, made him feel physically sick. Her skeleton frozen, picked clean by dogs or birds, good ear still tilted towards the door.

Clay pushed open the door. George’s stomach gave a warning lurch. 

No desiccated corpse. No skeleton. No spinning wheel still turning in the wind. Just smashed furniture, shards of broken glass, and a year of dust. 

The emptiness was somehow worse. 

George slumped off his pack and sat himself down next to the fireplace, back against the wall. He shut his eyes for a moment and breathed in the musty air. 

“I was right,” Clay said. 

George opened his eyes and squinted at Clay. “What?” 

“It was familiar,” he said, something teasing at the slant of his mouth. 

_Oh my God._

“You’re such an asshole,” George said, but it had unstuck something in him. He was laughing a little, the stuttering in his breath good, he thought, laughing rather than crying, but his eyes were a little wet. “I can’t _believe_ that’s what you’re thinking about right now.”

Clay came over and sat in front of him, a slightly self-satisfied glint in his eye, grin spreading over his face. “What? What else is there to even talk about?” 

Nothing. 

And it had worked, George supposed. He’d been reshifted to the right. Back in himself. 

George just choked out another half laugh and scrubbed at his eyes. He heard Clay move, felt the warmth through the thick fabric of his coat against as he leaned against the wall next to George. Shoulder to shoulder. Offering. 

George didn’t think he wanted a hug or whatever at the moment, but he appreciated the gesture. He glanced over at Clay, who was still smiling hesitantly at him, as they sat in the house of a dead woman. 

“You alright?” he asked, his voice soft. Because people looked after each other. “Sapnap can really like, move. I’ve seen him take down a cow like that.” 

George nodded. “I’m not hurt. I don’t think I’m even like, upset at him for doing that. The whole thing is…you know.” He glanced around the empty house, where a blind woman had once sat and spun yarn, out the still-open door that overlooked a street where he and Nick had hunted for bugs. 

They’d never do that again. When they were kids they’d spend hours following a single fat brown beetle with a sheet of paper, arguing about what to name him, trying to catch it, but he hadn’t thought about it for years. It was only because he was back here he, in the ruins of his hometown, sitting in the house that had once been Mrs. Helen’s, that he was even thinking about it. Sometimes you don’t remember what you lost until you know you’ve already lost it. That was ironic. Maybe. Maybe it was just awful. 

Laughter started to bubble up and gush out of his mouth, and he wiped at his cheeks again. “This is like, _so_ fucked up.”

“Right?” Clay said, laughing in the same tense, anxious way, “Like, _I_ didn’t want to be the one to say it, but this is really fucked.” 

“It’s horrible!” George exclaimed, smiling in exasperation, and laughing, and crying, and he turned to Clay, “why the hell did he even bring us here?” Clay just shook his head and shrugged.

“Dude, I don’t even- like, I know this is like, it’s something he feels like he has to do or whatever, but I don’t know what he thought he’d, like…” 

“‘Oh, look, it’s my old village that got burned to the ground and killed everyone,’” George said, doing a terrible impression of Nick, but in his defence he was laughing and crying and struggling to get air into his lungs, “‘That’s so fucked up and sad, let me go get a _closer look_ -‘“

He stopped abruptly, taking in a rasping, gasping breath, and tipped his head back against the wall. He distantly noticed he wasn’t really laughing anymore, or even crying, just drawing in painful difficult breath after painful difficult breath. 

It passed, eventually. Breathing felt less like a chore. He felt scrubbed clean. He felt like he’d taken a nail brush to the nooks and crannies of his lungs. 

He blinked over at Clay, who had one hand on his shoulder, and a waterskin in the other, and that same sad and vulnerable smile on his dark-flushed face. 

George took the waterskin and pulled a few long, grateful drinks from it. He handed it back and nodded. Clay gave his shoulder a couple solid pats. 

“Don’t-“ he started, his voice hoarse. He coughed a couple of times. “Don’t you want to go and like…check on Nick or whatever?” 

“No,” Clay scoffed, “He’s probably still mad, and then he’ll start a fight with me, and then _he’ll_ get hurt, and then it’ll be _super_ awkward because you’ll need to like, heal him whilst _you’re_ still mad at _him_.” 

George blew an amused breath out of his nose. 

“‘Sides,” Clay said, getting to his feet, “I gotta take care of you first.” 

George ducked his head down. He grumbled something out about not needing looking after, but he didn’t think it was particularly convincing. It made something fierce and affectionate rise up in the back of his throat, something thick and syrupy. He knew he was probably blushing. It didn’t matter. 

Clay shut the door with a heavy thud, and bent down to pick up what remained of chair. He hauled it up to his chest and paused, looking at George, looking for permission. 

George just nodded. Mrs. Helen was dead. Her ghost didn’t need furniture. 

  
Clay brought the chair down against the floor, and it splintered loudly. He planted one foot against it and pulled hard, as the legs and back came apart. 

“You think we can risk a fire?” George asked. He thought he should probably get up and help. He thought he probably couldn’t. Clay nodded. 

“It’s cold,” he said, “and the winds blow through here pretty quick. I don’t think anyone’s gonna look too close at an abandoned village anyway.” 

He came back with an armful of sticks and knelt down in front of the hearth, setting up the fire with practiced familiarity. George watched in contemplative silence as Clay started the fire, nurtured it, got it going. He placed a larger leg onto the fire and leaned back against the wall on the other side of the fire, stretching out his legs. He held out the back of his hand towards the fire, warming his scraped knuckles against the flames. 

“I don’t remember the last time we did this being so dramatic,” George grumbled. Clay laughed a little. 

“Things are different, now,” he said, and left it at that. 

Things were different now. They were going to depose a king. They were going to _win_. They were stronger this time. Sapnap was here. 

But there was something uneasy about the whole thing. George thought about trying to pinpoint when it had all gone wrong, when the whole thing had become such a strange and unpleasant experience. 

It probably would have been watching Clay burry the manhunters. The manhunters were evil and terrible and aggressive and had burned down his village. They were subhuman. They were dogs. 

Clay was different. Clay was not a manhunter. 

But Clay had been raised with them, had known the bogeymen from their ghost stories. They hadn’t been evil dogs. They’d been his friends. They’d been people. 

They were going to kill countless people. It was right. It was also a tragedy. 

Things were different now. 

Sapnap was here. His childhood friend, the last person in the world who’d known him when he was a kid, he was with them too. Nick Faraday, who George had thought was dead, who had wandered off and left George behind, he was here. They were both in Windhallow, right back where they’d been four years ago. 

Things were different now. 

“Yeah,” George said, something bitter and old in it, “it’s not just the two of us to cause problems now. We’ve got bloody Sapnap trailing around, yelling at me all the _bloody_ time, pushing me around like-” 

“Well…” Clay said, his voice high and anxious, and George glanced up at him. Clay was rubbing the back of his head, resolutely staring into the fire. “It’s not like this wasn’t coming? Like, you guys have been like, up in each others’ faces for…I dunno. Months?” 

“It’s because he’s a dick.” 

“It…takes two to argue?” 

“Whatever,” George sniffled, “fuck him. I’m done with him. He keeps acting like I’m, like-“ he trailed off, clenching his hands into fists. He looked up at Clay, who was staring back at him, chewing at his bottom lip. 

“It’s like he thinks I’m useless!” George continued, trying to find that burning, energising anger he’d had just moments ago, “like I’m a little kid, like if he looks away for half a second I’m going to, like, I dunno, break all my bones.”

Clay sighed. “George-“ George rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to start another argument, but Clay cut him off. 

“No, shut up for a second, okay?” Clay said, and George obligingly shut his mouth. “I just- I think you two are like…not hearing what either of you are like, saying, if that makes sense? The reason he doesn’t want you here isn’t because he doesn’t want you here, it’s ‘cause he’s worried. He just can’t-” 

“Fuck off,” George scoffed, and idly poked at the fire just so he wouldn’t have to look directly at Clay’s open, earnest expression. 

“No, I’m serious, it’s like- Like sometimes I get kind of…” Clay trailed off and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, making it all stand up on its end. “It’s hard to- oh! Okay.” 

Clay leaned forward, and George glanced up at him, his eyes focused, mouth set in determination. “Okay, so, like, do you remember that night we were like, two drinks in, and then Nick dared me to do some dumb, like, free-running race or whatever?” 

George nodded. He’d remembered. The night had been dark, and the lamp-posts were getting extinguished, and in the shadows of the autumn night the buildings seemed fifty feet tall. He’d taken one look at the route and seen five different places they could have slipped and cracked their skulls open. 

“Okay, and like, you remember you didn’t want us to do that, right?” 

“Duh,” George grumbled, and went back to staring at the fire, burning his eyes, just for something to do. “It was stupid, you guys could have gotten like, really badly hurt.” 

“Exactly!” Clay said, like he’d just solved something. “It wasn’t about whether or not we could _do_ it, it was about the fact that we _might_ get hurt. That’s why he’s being all weird around you. It’s not ‘cause he doesn’t think you _can,_ it’s ‘cause it’s dangerous and he doesn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Then why doesn’t he _say_ that?” George snapped, tossing the stick into the fire and glaring back up at Clay, “Why doesn’t he just say, ‘be careful, I’m worried’? Why does he do this stupid thing where he acts like I’m going to throw myself off the nearest cliff if he leaves me alone for _two seconds-“_

“Why don’t you?” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“You never say like, ‘oh hey, Clay, stay safe in training tomorrow, it upsets me when you get all bloody’-“ 

“I _do not_ sound like that-“ 

“You never say that, do you?” Clay said, eyes blazing, “You just, like…I dunno. You just give me this… look, and then after you complain that I’m being a bad patient whilst you put the bandages on all carefully.” 

George thought, silently, eyes roving around the dusty half-destroyed room. He never _did_ tell either of them he was worried about them. The words always got jammed up in his throat. Even late at night, when there was nothing but them and the stars, and they were breathing quietly in the still air after a nightmare, George couldn’t bring himself to say ‘I care about you, you’re my best friend, I love you’. 

He would reach out instead, let his fingers rest on the back of Clay’s hand, and Clay would exhale slowly and mumble something like ‘I love you too’. It was enough. Clay understood, he thought. 

“Like,” Clay continued, gentler, “I know you care about me. I care about you too. I don’t need you to say it with words, ‘cause I worked out that you like, say it different. Nick can’t say it with words either, I think ‘cause he wants to be this, y’know, cool tough guy or whatever. To be honest, I’m not really sure if he knows that’s why he’s doing what he’s doing. But it’s not ‘cause he thinks you’re useless.” 

“Since when did you become an expert in human emotions?” George griped under his breath, but there was no heat in it. Clay snorted and shook his head. 

“Since I had to watch you two idiots bite each other’s heads off over nothing for four months,” he said, and got to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” George asked, and felt something weird and anxious stir in him as Clay grabbed his sword and settled the mask back over his face. 

“To get Nick. He’s probably cooled down by now. Think about it, and then when I drag him back here, maybe you two can use your words like big kids and talk about it. Gives you time to practice saying ‘when you do this, it makes me feel-‘”

“Your impression of me still sucks,” George said dryly, and Clay laughed, thin and wheezing and high pitched. He came over and mussed the hairs on his head. George lazily swatted at him. 

“Be back in a bit,” Clay said, and wandered out the door, shielding his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. 

George sat in the dirty house that had once belonged to Mrs. Helen and thought. 

Nick was his oldest friend. He’d left home at age fifteen and they hadn’t seen each other for three years, and by the time they’d met up again they were both grown men. The first time George had seen him, Sapnap had been hovering by his bedside, and George had gotten to marvel at how whole he was. 

But the first time Nick had seen _him_ , George had been covered in sweat and grime and blood, so delirious he couldn’t remember most of the day. This came maybe six months after he got the news that he was dead, that his grandfather was dead, that the place he had called home had been burned to the ground. No burial, this time. 

It wasn’t like the concern came from nowhere. George was used to worrying about his friends. Maybe Nick was still getting used to worrying about his friends. Adjusting to the awareness of how dangerous the world could be to people who weren’t you. 

The sun dipped lower, tinting the pale blue sky a light grey at the edges, and Clay hadn’t come back yet. That was odd. Nick couldn’t have gone _that_ far or been _that_ mad, surely. 

The ruins of Windhallow were still, silent, eerie. 

He heard footsteps coming up the path towards Mrs. Helen’s house. 

“Clay?” George called out cautiously, and the footsteps stopped. 

George reached for his axe and slowly, cautiously got to his feet. 

He crept forward, as silently as he could, towards the door. His hand was on the handle of his axe.

There was a blur of motion at the window and George ducked down, right as a gust of wind blew through the town. The door banged open and George jumped, spinning around, axe in his hand. 

The door banged in the wind a little more, the doorway empty as it had been. He turned back to the window, watching for the first sign of movement. 

The blow to the head came as a shock. The shock didn’t last for long, as the world around him went blindingly white, and then George wasn’t thinking about anything at all. 

* * *

* * *

At Zak’s insistence, they’d let the horse go. Darryl had been pretty keen on keeping it around, if only to give Zak’s leg time to heal. 

It wasn’t broken, Zak had insisted, and the horse would only make them a bigger target. 

The real lynchpin had been telling Darryl it wasn’t fair to make the one horse carry both of them all the way to the capital. Zak didn’t care, particularly, because it was a horse and did not have a sense of justice, but Darryl had folded like a house of cards. 

They’d known each other a long time. 

They pulled the saddle off the horse’s back, and eased the bridle from its head. The horse blinked stupidly at them. 

In the distance, a herd of wild horses grazed. One looked up with interest.

“Thanks,” said Darryl, “enjoy being a wild horse.” 

The horse snorted and started to wander off. 

Zak laughed and slung the pack over his shoulder. 

“I don’t know how Dan’s so..” Darryl said.

“Probably because he smells so bad,” Zak said, shifting a little and wincing, “They think he’s a horse too.” Darryl came and slung one of Zak’s arms over his shoulders, taking his weight. 

They hobbled along, over the wide plains. 

* * *

Regardless of the rest of the experience of dealing with the wildlings, they had at least been givena ride closer to the capital. Silver linings, Zak thought, and then thought he had probably spent too much time around Darryl. They came to the edge of the plains, standing in front of a wide, sunny forrest, maybe two days before they had planned. The foothills of Autumnmaw rose up beyond the forest, where they had to turn back west and meet everyone else at the lake. 

His leg was still giving him some problems. He limped along, leaning on a gnarled branch that Darryl had whittled and sanded down into a walking stick. 

“Let’s take a break,” Darryl said, stretching out his back. 

“What?” Zak scoffed, “no way! We’re nearly there already.” 

“Zak,” Darryl whined, “But your leg-“

“Darryl,” he whined obnoxiously back, “the best thing for it is just to get to George and let him fix it with his cleric powers or whatever.” 

“That’s _not_ how it works,” Darryl said, rolling his eyes and nudging his glasses back up his nose, “and if he was here he’d definitely be telling you to rest. Come on, we have the time.”

Zak opened his mouth to keep arguing, but then-

“And I’m tired of walking anyway.” 

Well. 

Zak couldn’t deny that a lazy day would be welcome. 

“Fine,” he said, “we’ll find somewhere to set up for the day.” 

Darryl cheered, and they made their way into the forest. 

Before long, they came to the edge of what was either a large pond or a small lake. They bickered about the difference as they sat down and stretched out their legs, and Zak took stock of what they had. 

Twenty pounds, so far. They’d lost a little from the escapade with the wildlings, but they’d have enough to blow the throne room into oblivion. 

Enough for payback, for all those years the Mad King had kept them under his heel. For all those years he’d patrolled the grounds of his castle and told himself it was an honour, for all the years Darryl had struggled alone. 

Thinking about it pulled something taught in his chest. The thought of evening out the scoreboard. 

When they lay awake at night, when Darryl couldn’t sleep or Zak had nightmares that threw him back to the dungeons, he whispered it to the space between them. The dreams of revenge, so close, so achingly close. Within grasp. 

For now though, the sun was beating down on their bond. Darryl had started gathering bucketful of sand when he stopped and gasped. 

“Zak!” he squealed, and Zak was halfway to his feet before Darryl finished what he was saying, “fishies!” 

Zak rolled his eyes and pulled himself the rest of the way up, making his way to the shoreline. The dappled sunlight caught the shimmering, shining scales of a school of golden fish, darting around the shallows of the pond. 

“Maybe we should go fishing,” Zak said, knowing exactly that Darryl would say-

“No!” he said, appalled, “we don’t need more food, and look how happy they are, swimming around in the water.” 

Zak laughed and nodded, watching the fish swim in circles. A memory floated up to him from the deep recess of his mind. 

“Remember that lake up by Claire’s View?” he said, and Darryl nodded enthusiastically, “that one with all the weird fish.”

“Of course!” Darryl said, “That first time, when your dad tried to teach us how to fish, and then-“ 

Zak laughed. “And you started crying because-“

“-he told us that the fish die when you-“

“-you worked out that fishing involved killing the fish, yeah,” Zak said, the moment still as vivid in his mind as it had ever been. 

At the time, they’d still been young enough that it wasn’t embarrassing. Zak’s father had just watched with distant, panicked bafflement. Zak remembered panicking, ready to do anything to get Darryl to stop crying, and saying they could go bucketing instead. 

Zak’s father hadn’t said much about it, but had watched as the two boys waded into the lake with their trousers rolled up to their ankles, buckets clutched in their hands, and spent the afternoon fruitlessly collecting and letting the fish go. 

Darryl and Zak’s eyes both went to the bucket of sand Darryl was carrying. 

“The water’s probably way too cold for that,” Darryl said. Zak heard the unspoken disappointment. 

“Well,” Zak said, “we could probably manage like, five minutes? Maybe ten?” 

“I dunno…” Darryl said, but he was coming around. 

Zak grabbed the bucket and tipped the sand out onto the ground, sitting down and starting to take off his shoes. “Come on, Darryl,” he said, wheedling, “it’s a lazy day, and it’s just for five minutes. It can’t be that cold, if the fish are okay.” 

“But-your leg…“

Zak had already started taking off the other boot. “You’re supposed to like, ice injuries, right?” 

“I guess?” 

“So this is like that,” Zak said, gesturing to his leg. He wasn’t stupid. He knew there was probably something properly wrong with it. He knew Darryl wasn’t stupid either. 

Darryl still looked unsure, but caved, sitting down next to him and taking off his shoes. 

A few moments later they were wading into the cold water, trousers rolled up to their knees, socks and boots discarded on the shoreline. They hissed at the temperature, toes squishing in the mud, and waited for the fish to swim by. 

Zak wasn’t particularly mobile, so he let Darryl do most of the work, trying and failing to direct the school towards him. They’d manage to scoop up a fish once in a while, and would admire the way it glittered and shone in the bucket. They’d argue over its name and then submerge the bucket in the water again, watching it circle the bucket and eventually find its way out. 

It was simple, and harmless. It wasn’t for anything, they never had anything to show at the end of it. 

It didn’t matter. For five, ten minutes, all they had to think about was fish and buckets. 

They waded back out of the water before too long, wrapping their legs in their towels and warming up in the cold winter sun. 

They’d gone back to that lake every summer, sometimes accompanied by Zak’s Dad, sometimes by Darryl’s Mom. Eventually they got old enough to go on their own, but they only had one or two trips alone before before Zak had talked Darryl into going with him to the capital, to the manhunter trials. 

Darryl let out a quiet laugh and Zak turned to him questioningly. 

“Just thinking about what my Mom would say,” he said, taking off his glasses and shutting his eyes against the glare of the sun. 

“‘Darryl Novak, what on earth do you think you’re doing, wading around in a pond in the middle of winter! Who talked you into that, was it Zak?’” Zak said in an awful falsetto. Darryl giggled. 

“‘I work all day,’” Darryl continued also in a falsetto, “‘washing your clothes, keeping them clean, and you go and get them muddy again? To go and put fish in a bucket? That’s a time out for sure!’ And then I go, ‘Mom, I’m twenty five, you can’t put me in time out.’” 

“Your mother was a saint,” Zak said, laughing, “Don’t lie, you would have let her put you in time out.” 

“I would have,” Darryl agreed easily, glancing over at Zak. He didn’t say, _I miss her_. 

He didn’t have to. 

Zak put a hand on Darryl’s shoulder, turning his eyes to the canopy of dappled light above them. 

“I’ll never forget that time my father came to dinner,” he said, “and dropped that knife and swore, and your Mom was all like ‘actually in this house, when we want to use bad language, we say ‘muffins’’, and my Dad had such a weird look on his face,” Zak snickered to himself. 

“I was _so_ shocked,” Darryl said, “When he said it.” 

Zak laughed again, and closed his eyes. His leg throbbed distantly. 

“It feels like a long time ago,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Darryl agreed. “It kinda was.” 

They sat in silence. 

“I think she’d be proud,” Darryl said eventually. Zak nodded in agreement. 

“Definitely,” he said, and the air suddenly felt much heavier. He cracked one eye open and glanced over at Darryl, who had a sad, faraway look in his eyes. 

“You did the one thing she never could quite manage,” he said seriously. Darryl looked over, one eyebrow raised in question. 

“Get me to say ‘muffins’ instead of ‘fuck’,” he said, grinning. Darryl laughed, eyes wide and scandalised. 

“Language, Zak!” he cried in despair, and the two laughed loudly and brightly, and savoured their lazy day in the forest.

* * *

* * *

They stayed in the village for two days. They had time to kill, and it was better that they be sure Tommy wasn’t having a severely adverse reaction to whatever spider had bitten him. The cleric had explained all of this in no uncertain terms to Techno, who had listened intently and soaked every word up like a sponge. 

Tommy was fine. It only took a morning bed-bound for him to start complaining about how bored he was. Tubbo stayed in with him, whether it was out of a compulsion to keep Tommy company or because he was worried about the people of the village, Techno didn’t know.

He felt weirdly on edge, here, in this small unassuming village not unlike the one he grew up in. They’d all seen him, or at the very least had pretended not to see him. He’d sat on the front step sharpening his sword most of the time, keeping a wary eye on the populace. They hurried past, their eyes down and carefully averted. Any one of them could hand them in for a handsome reward. 

Logically, he knew that they knew that was a bad decision, in the long run. Tactical blunder.

Maybe he’d underestimated how far the legends had spread. That first day Phil had rolled into their camp and asked after the Pig-Nosed Lord had been surreal enough. The thought that a whole village of people knew his name was kind of gratifying, and stressful in a pleasant sort of way. 

Sometime around midday on that first day, sitting on that step and waiting to feel sleepy, a very small human approached him. 

_A child_ , a voice in the back of his head helpfully reminded him. _He was supposed to call them children._

Maybe he should sleep. 

In her grubby little hands was a basket, a gingham cloth covering up what he could smell were bread rolls. In the cold of the early afternoon, he could see steam rising up from them. 

“Are you the Pig-Nosed Lord?” she asked, louder than was strictly necessary. 

“Keep your voice down,” he said, a little sharply, and immediately felt bad. If she noticed, it didn’t bother her.

“Oh,” she said, voice dropping to a stage whisper, “are you the Pig-Nosed Lord?” 

Techno nodded solemnly. The girl held out her basket at arms’ length. 

“My Ma told me to bring this to you,” she said. “She said you’re probably hungry and she doesn’t know if you have any food so I needed to bring this to you, and I’m not supposed to eat _any_ of it, and-“ 

Techno listened patiently. Ruler. Leader. Fair. She was taking this mission seriously, so he probably should as well. 

He heard giggling from the window to his left. As subtly as he could he reached a hand behind his back, where the child couldn’t see, and flipped Tommy and Tubbo off. 

“-so when you’re done just leave the basket here-“ she patted the step in front of her, “- and then I have to come get it.” 

“Thank you,” Techno said, taking the basket. “That was a very comprehensive mission report.” 

She giggled a little. “I don’t know what that is.” 

“It’s what you just told me,” Techno said, peeking inside the basket. Three full golden-brown loaves were nestled inside it, still warm from the oven. “Tell your Ma ‘thank you’ from me.” 

She nodded, and shifted from foot to foot. He watched her, slightly bemused. _Pieces on a Chess Board…is she waiting to be dismissed? Does she have something she wants to say?_

“Is there…any thing else?” Techno said hesitantly. 

“What happened to your nose?” she asked, “My Ma said I wasn’t supposed to ask you but my Grandpa says that you have to ask questions or you’ll never learn about the world, so I think that maybe my Ma is wrong this time, like the time she…” 

Techno tuned out the rest of the story, scrambling to think of an answer. _Well kid, I went into the capital and made a stupid speech and then it was cut off. Yes it was the most painful thing imaginable, yes there was blood everywhere, yes I was scared, yes the infections that came on and off for the next year were humiliating, yes the scar used to bother me but at this point I’ve gotten used to it_. 

He didn’t think that making a child cry was a good look for a leader of the nation. 

“Uh…” he said, when he noticed the girl staring expectantly. “It fell off.” 

“Do noses do that?” she asked, something slightly anxious in her voice. 

“Not usually,” he said. 

“Oh. Why did yours?” 

Techno thought for a few short seconds for an appropriate answer. “Didn’t eat my vegetables.” 

The girl’s mouth made a small ‘o’ shape, and she nodded solemnly. “Vegables are important.” 

“Vegetables.” 

“Veg-e-tab-les.” 

Techno nodded. The girl opened her mouth, like she was going to say something else, but another voice rang out over the usual murmurs of the village. 

“Rosie! Come on! We’re going to go play dragons!” The girl turned around and ran down the steps, pausing just before she went out of sight. 

“Bye!” She called, waving with her whole arm. Techno raised a hand and watched her go. He heard the door creek open behind him and rolled his eyes pre-emptively. 

“Awwwww,” Tommy cooed obnoxiously from behind him, “I’m going to get a _cavity,_ who’d have thought the big, tough, scawy Pig-Nosed Lord was so sweet with kids, he’s just a softy on the inside, really-“ 

Tubbo was trying to contribute somewhere further back, but giggling too hard to get a sentence out. Techno turned his head to see Tommy, still a little pale but looking remarkably good considering the circumstances, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed. There was a sharp, mischievous glint in his eye. 

Techno reached into the basket and pulled out a bread roll. He took an obnoxious bite out of one and held it out to Tommy. 

“Here’s your lunch,” he said, his mouth full of bread, “go back to bed.” 

Tommy scowled at him exaggeratedly and swiped the roll from his hands, laughing as he disappeared back into the shadows of the room. Tubbo smiled at him apologetically, and Techno gently tossed another one at him. Tubbo deftly caught it and closed the door behind him.

Techno laughed, in spite of himself, and let himself enjoy the first warm meal he hadn’t had to make for a long time. 

* * *

When they left, Tommy strong and hale and hearty, they left as the sun set. Nobody came to escort them from the town, but he felt their eyes on him anyway, watching through the windows. 

He kept his chin high and his gait steady. 

_You can repay me,_ the woman had said _, by killing the Mad King._

He felt her eyes on him as they walked out of town, even as they walked through the night and most of the next day, even as they put miles and miles between themselves and the Village of Samson, he felt her eyes on him. 

When he laid awake at night whilst Tubbo was on watch, he felt her eyes on him then, too. 

* * *

A week passed. They moved slower through the forest than they had through the caves, more cautiously and in shorter bursts. The nights were cold - no fires, short watches. Techno slept fitfully, it felt like he was blinking awake every few minutes, some new absurd horror he had to account for making itself known. 

The stars turned to elaborate connect-the-dots above his head, the numbers left blank, but if he stared at them long enough maybe they’d coalesce into something that resembled clarity. He would start in one corner and work his way around, looking for some kind of reason, an internal logic, but he could never find it before the sky started to lighten and the stars faded, and then Tommy was saying it was time to get up and make headway on their long march to the capital.

It was giving him a headache, and at this point it was giving him dark half-moons under his eyes. 

Tubbo had noticed, he was pretty sure. He thought that by now Tommy had probably noticed too, which was a mark of how bad it was getting. Tommy couldn’t notice a rat until it was…something. Maybe that wasn’t actually a saying. 

He really should sleep. 

“Techno,” Tommy was saying one morning. Techno blinked the sleep from his eyes and forced himself to focus, turning his attention to Tommy. 

“Ha?” 

“I was looking at the maps, and I was thinking we should really give Cavecross another try,” Tommy said, walking a little closer. 

“Absolutely not,” Techno said and went back to rolling up his bedroll. 

“Really though, we moved much quicker through the Caves-“ 

“We’re not-“ 

“I feel like you’re not listening to me,” Tommy said, and Techno saw him cross his arms in the corner of his eye. Tommy was looming now, using the fact that he was standing up to try and intimidate Techno. It worked on Tubbo, sometimes. Darryl let him pretend it worked on him. 

It wasn’t working on Techno. 

“I am listening,” he said, gathering the last remainders of his belongings and setting them carefully in his pack. 

“Then listen - Cavecross is more direct, it’s warmer, it’s more covert, we’re less likely to run into manhunters-“

“I’m not letting you talk me into going back into Cavecross so you can kill a spider and prove yourself. We’ll only end up expending resources we can’t afford to expend.”

“I’m not- what are you on about?” 

“You’re telling me that you don’t wanna go back down into the ravine and pick a fight with the biggest spider you can see?” Techno turned his head just slightly, still not directly looking at him.

The silence was answer enough. 

“Well, maybe a little, but you know all that other stuff is true too, and it was your idea-“

“I said _no,_ Tommy,” Techno said, buckling up his pack. “Let it go. We can travel through the forest just fine, we just need to be more careful."

“We _can’t_ travel through the forest ‘just fine’, though, can we?” Tommy said, and there was an edge of disapproval in his voice that he’d certainly learned from Phil. Techno rolled his eyes. 

“We’re just fine, ain’t we?” 

“Well…” Tubbo said hesitantly, “are we?” 

_Damnit._

“Are you?” 

“Are… _you?_ ” 

_God damnit._

“I’m fine,” he said, too firmly to be believed. 

There were a few cautious beats of silence before Tubbo cautiously said,“You haven’t like…had any trouble with…sleep?”

_Oh, God fucking damnit._

“Nope.” 

“Bullshit,” Tommy said, and there was no caution in his voice, none of that careful kindness that Tubbo dealt in, “You look awful.” 

“You say just the nicest things.”

“Being up here is putting us all on edge, and-“

“And you think it’d be better if we were back in the company of man eating spiders.” Techno said, turning his head to face Tommy directly. 

“Well, it was!” 

“Until you got bitten.” That was unfair, he knew, it’d been his fault they’d gone down there in the first place. He was getting tired of this conversation. He thought this would probably end it. 

Tommy scowled at the ground, and Techno was relieved that he’d ended this line of questioning. 

Tommy’s head snapped back up, and there was genuine irritation in his eyes. 

“Why don’t you ever listen to us?” 

“I listened, it-“

“You weren’t listening, though! You just argued!” 

“You’re arguing-“

“We’re supposed to be your advisors, but you never let us _advise_ you, and my _advice_ is that we go back to Cavecross because it’s _safer_ and _faster_ ,” Tommy said. He was going a little red in the face. 

“Thank you for the advice, but it’s terrible,” Techno said, with what he hoped was finality. 

“Tubbo agrees with me.” Tommy pointed at Tubbo, who blanched a little.

“Uh…I…” 

“I don’t care if Tubbo agrees with you,” Techno said, turning back to his pack. “It’s too tactically dangerous. You nearly got ate the last time we were there and we don’t have time to double back if it happens again.”

“I can look after myself!” 

“You barely know how to shave.” Techno said, getting to his feet and heading off. He hoped they would follow.

“Oh is that what this is about?” Tommy spat, taking two angry strides forward, “the fact that we’re _young_? Too _young_ to know better?” 

Techno didn’t dignify that with a response.

“You were _younger_ than us when you went to go fight the Mad King!” he called. 

Techno paused in his tracks. 

“It doesn’t take a genius to do the maths,” Tommy continued, even as Techno slowly turned to face him. “You must’ve been like, fifteen. If you were old enough to go gank a dictator, we’re old enough to walk through some _fucking caves_.” 

Techno snorted a heavy breath. It turned white and misty in the cold morning air. 

“Yeah, I was younger,” he said, taking wide, purposeful strides back towards Tommy, “I was a dumb teenager when I went to go kill the Mad King. How do you think that _went,_ Tommy? I’ll give you three guesses as to what it got me.” 

Tommy had the good sense to look at least slightly cowed. 

“I got my nose cut off, my village burned, everyone who ever knew me killed or exiled to some plains a million miles away. I lost. I was stupid and arrogant and I _lost_ ,” he continued in a low, furious drawl. “So _maybe_ you’ll understand why I’m being so _cautious_ this time around.” 

“I-“

“And forgive me if I’m trying to take steps,” he said, continuing towards Tommy. He was looming now, he knew, but if pulling rank was what it took to get this conversation to end then that’s what he was going to do, “to keep you two _idiots_ alive, considering the fact you both still have _mothers_ waiting for you to come home.” 

Tommy flinched a little, face screwing up into a scowl. “How did-“

“Phil told me, of _course_ Phil told me,” he said, and he knew he was getting close to shouting now, but he was tired and furious and he couldn’t care, he couldn’t find it in himself to care, “You think I was just gonna let him bring a couple of teenagers into a _war room_ without some kinda explanation?” 

Tommy was scowling in earnest now, face going red with rage. 

“So maybe I’m going to be a little hesitant to take the advice of someone who watched their cousin leave to join a revolution and thought it’d be a good idea to tag along with his school friend. Maybe I’m going to be cautious about trusting the opinion of someone who thought the orphans lie was even slightly convincing. _Maybe_ I’m going to ignore the advice of a _sixteen year old_ who first left his village hidden in a hay cart in search of a fun adventure and maybe some excitement, instead of keeping his fucking nose out of it and staying at home where it was _safe_.”

Techno leaned down, put his face right close to Tommy’s. “We’re not going back into the caves,” he said, voice even and quiet and absolutely terrifying. Tommy directed his frown to the dirt. 

Techno turned to look at Tubbo. “You got anything to add?” Tubbo shook his head, eyes wide and terrified. 

_Good,_ Technoblade thought viciously, and he turned on his heels, continuing towards the capital. 

After a little while, Tommy and Tubbo followed. 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day. 

* * *

That night as they set up camp, Techno heard Tommy and Tubbo whispering quietly to each other. He paused for a moment, considering, but decided to let it be. Let them talk. A lion didn’t concern itself with the opinions of mice. The Mad King didn’t care what people said about him. 

Techno took a moment to take a deep breath and remind himself he wasn’t supposed to use the Mad King as a good example of a fair and just ruler. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the itch of exhaustion. God, he was tired. 

Tommy and Tubbo were still whispering to each other, and it didn’t take a tactical genius to work out that they were talking about _him_.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, not with the echoing whispers of Tommy and Tubbo still in his ears. He’d take those and store them in his brain, in the same place he kept the watchful gaze of the woman from the village, the same place he kept the glances of the people back in his city. 

He was so tired. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. 

“You’re taking first shift?” Tommy called, and Techno startled a little. He nodded mutely. 

There were a few beats of silence as the wind rustled the papery birch leaves. It was quiet. 

Was it _too_ quiet? 

Tommy was saying something but he tuned it out, focusing on listening to the sounds of the night. There wasn’t any birdsong, that was supposed to be a bad sign, right? He was pretty sure Sapnap had told him that once. It was dusk though. The birds had to sleep at some point. Crickets were chirping, though he thought that crickets were supposed to be too dumb to care about people. There was rustling in the leaves, but a cursory glance up didn’t reveal the dreaded silhouette of a man crouching in the boughs. They were alone. Or so it seemed. 

“Stop ignoring me,” Tommy spat out. Techno sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. It caught on the beginnings of stubble on his chin. He needed to shave. He needed to sleep. He couldn’t do either. 

“Right,” he said wearily. 

There were another few seconds of too much quiet. 

“Good _night_ , then,” Tommy said, and it was accompanied by the noise of him throwing himself too aggressively onto the bedroll. 

“Night.” Techno said.

It was him and the night. Something felt wrong. There was something out there in the shadows cast by the full moon. He was sure of it. The manhunters were skilled, they had been trained to move silently. 

Time passed in silence, the only noise being the gentle chirping of crickets. If there were any hunters out there, they were lying in wait. Maybe somewhere in the tall grass. Maybe in the denser forest behind them. Maybe not a hunter, maybe something else, another one of the endless monsters that slumped malevolently about the world.

Maybe he should do a perimeter check. Just in case. It wouldn’t take long. 

Techno grabbed his sheathed sword and silently moved out into the shadows of the night. He was conscious, achingly so, of the bright moon casting a shadow behind him. Tactically disadvantageous position for covert ops, he knew. He hoped it’d make the manhunters easier to spot as well. 

He moved slowly, carefully, making sure that he was watching where he stood so he didn’t snap an errant twig and draw attention to his position. He scarcely dared to breathe, focusing on taking in the space around him, eyes flitting erratically around the forest. His chest felt tight. He couldn’t find any hunters, they were too well-hidden, and _he’s killed them, he’s killed them all-_

“Techno!” Someone hissed in his ear, and there was a hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t think. 

He spun around and swung out with his fist clenched shut. It made contact with a face, a satisfying _thwunk_ , and the hunter yelped in pain. Technoblade pushed the advantage, tackling him to the ground, pinning him face down with one arm behind his back. Tubbo’s other hand was flailing ineffectively in the dirt, stuttering out breaths, and just as Technoblade was getting the arm in the position he knew would take only trivial force to snap it his brain caught up with him. 

Techno let go of Tubbo like his skin was white hot, and he threw himself backwards with as much force as he could muster. Tubbo lay gasping face down in the dirt, rolling himself onto his back, cradling his arm to his chest. Techno crawled backwards, his back coming into contact with the smooth trunk of a birch, and he forced himself to take long, deep breaths. 

Tommy came crashing through the forest like a bull in a china shop, sword drawn. He came into view and froze for a second, taking in the tableau before him. He made his way over to Tubbo, sheathing his sword and kneeling down in the dirt. Tubbo winced, turning and flexing his arm to make sure it wasn’t actually injured. 

“What happened?” he heard Tommy ask Tubbo quietly.

It was all Techno could do to take deep breaths. 

“What the fuck happened?” Tommy said, turning to Techno. 

_What had happened?_ Techno swallowed. 

“He snuck up on me,” he said, in what he hoped sounded strong and accusatory in spite of the rasp in his voice. 

Tommy just stared at him incredulously. 

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you,” he said, his voice flat. Not angry, like he knew Tommy could get. 

The silence of the forest sat oppressively on his chest. 

“It’s time for your shift,” he managed after what felt like several long minutes of silence. 

Tommy shook his head and held out a hand, hauling Tubbo to his feet. He put one arm around his shoulders and led them back in the direction of the camp. 

Away from their whispers, from their gaze, from the watchful eye of recorders and villagers and historians, Techno struggled for breath. 

He’d nearly broken Tubbo’s arm. 

He’d been ready to do it. 

He was losing his mind, maybe. 

It felt like too much, all of a sudden. He bent double, putting his head between his knees, and forced himself to take deep breaths. He counted up in prime numbers, and got up to 113 before he forgot what came next. He counted back down again. 

Why was he here? Why was he doing any of this? All the time and energy he’d sunk into this goose chase, following his instincts, leading his friends into the jaws of death. Putting Tommy in the firing line of a spider that could, maybe should have killed him. Being so on edge he’d nearly snapped Tubbo’s arm like it had been a branch in his way, an obstacle to encounter and destroy. 

Why was he _doing_ any of it? What did he care that the Mad King lived or died? He’d escaped. He had his own domain where he was safe, where he could keep his friends safe. 

By the time he was back in his own head, his lungs inflating and deflating as they should, he noticed that he’d been biting his knuckles hard enough to leave a mark. 

He breathed heavily, the noise almost deafening in the quiet night. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“I’ve gotta finish what I started,” he said to himself, his voice rough and low. “I’ve gotta finish what I started.”

God, he was tired. 

He got to his feet and stumbled back to the camp. He did his best to ignore the look Tommy gave him as he came back, rolled out his bedroll, and collapsed face first onto it. Above him, circling lazily in the night sky, a dark shape moved unnoticed  


* * *

He woke up the next morning as the sun rose, which was early but by his standards shockingly late. Tommy had mummified himself in blankets across the campsite, snoring soundly, and Tubbo was still sitting peacefully on watch. In the pale light of the morning, his bruises looked slate grey. 

Guilt churned low in his abdomen. He got to his feet and stretched, loudly popping out the kinks in his back, and noisily made his way to sit next to Tubbo. 

“Morning,” he offered. 

“Good morning,” Tubbo replied. His voice was stiff and stilted. They sat in thick silence as the forest around them woke up. 

“Tubbo, I’m…” he started, and stared down at his hands. His knuckles still had the little semi-circle of tooth marks in them. 

“ _Theo_ ,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Tubbo rushed to say, “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you, really, it was-“

“No, no, Theo, please” Techno said, forcing himself to sound gentle. “I wasn’t mad at you. I didn’t know it was you I was swingin’ at. You startled me, but I shouldn’t have been so…wound up that I was gonna swing first and ask questions later.” 

It didn’t seem like enough. He pulled his knees up towards his chest and rested his chin on them.

“You’re right. I haven’t been sleeping so well.” 

“Is it…” Tubbo started, and then seemed unsure of how to continue. Techno glanced at him. He was picking at his lip again, and Techno tutted quietly at the sight. Tubbo dropped his hand and smiled sheepishly. 

“We’re goin’ to go commit regicide,” Techno said quietly. “I’ve got eight guys to try and take down a dictator. And we’re bein’ hunted. More than enough to keep you up at night.” 

“That’s why we sleep in shifts, though,” Tubbo said, “and why we travel in small groups. It’s so we don’t get snuck up on. We have a plan. We’ve already thought about it.” 

Techno heaved a sigh. 

“You need to sleep more,” Tubbo said, “I think at least part of the uh… thing was just from you being like, cranky.” 

“I guess,” he mumbled, “still, doesn’t really make up for the…” he gestured vaguely at Tubbo’s bruises. 

They sat in contemplative silence. A bird whistled a loud, piercing song. 

Techno saw out of the corner of his eye Tubbo pull his arm back and punch Techno in the shoulder.

“Ow!” he said, rubbing the spot, “Huh-what was-“

“Payback,” Tubbo grinned. “We’re even now.” 

Techno stared blankly at him for long enough that Tubbo’s expression started to stiffen into anxiety. He snorted and rubbed his arm a little more. 

“Hope you enjoyed that,” he griped as Tubbo let out a quiet but undeniably relieved laugh. “It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”

There were a few moments of quiet, and this time it really _was_ too quiet.

“You done evesdroppin’, Green?” he said, turning towards where Tommy was still pretending to be asleep. He’d stopped snoring several minutes ago. 

Tommy sheepishly poked his head out of the nest of blankets. Techno rolled his eyes in what he hoped came across as fondly exasperated. 

“Come on,” he said, getting to his feet, “we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

* * *

* * *

Awareness came to George in snatches. Sore spot on the back of his head. Rough cold metal around his wrists. A conversation, it sounded tense, three people talking over each other. Cold stone, the smell of rotting wood. By the time he managed to prise his eyes open he knew something was wrong. 

He opened his eyes to the inside of a cleric’s. The cleric’s in Windhallow, or what was left of it. He knew it like the back of his hand, having spent probably hundreds of hours in this space. 

The floorboards all creaked now, some of them half-snapped. The windows were shattered, and the wind howled through the gaps in the walls. 

His head hurt. He groaned, shutting his eyes again, and the conversation stuttered to an end. 

“Ah!” someone said, “he arises. Brilliant, saves us all a bit of time.” 

“George!” and he knew that voice, that was Clay, and he sounded panicked. 

He blinked his eyes, prising them back open. The blurry image of Clay, slumped against the wall, a heavy beam propped up in front of him, two loops of chains around it. Their packs, their weapons, were stacked in a careless pile in a dusty corner of the room.

Nick was next to him, white shirt stark against the black undershirt. 

What- 

He went to rub his eyes, but his wrists were bound together, weighed down by heavy chains. 

“What-“ he started, didn’t know how to finish. 

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said that new voice, that new clear voice that rang like a bell and gave him a headache. “Much bigger things to worry about!” 

The image sharpened, coalesced. 

Clay and Nick were shackled, their wrists manacled together. Nick’s face was dark and thunderous, thick with fury, the manacles threaded through the loops around the beam. Whether it was still directed at George or not, he didn’t know. 

There was a third figure, a man dressed all in black, leaning against the opposite wall. He was watching George with sharp, hungry eyes. His shirt was pushed up a little off his forearms.

George’s eyes caught on the brand on his arm. The shape of the shield, the horns of the cow skull. 

A manhunter. 

His eyes went wide, his heart sunk deep into his stomach. He tried to stand but stopped, suddenly, his manacles woven around a heavy rock.

“Oh, don’t give me that look! I’m not just going to turn you in,” he said, pushing off the wall. He took two long strides over to George, and crouched down in front of him. “Those idiots in Ravengrave didn’t know what they had, what had just fallen into their lap.” 

He grabbed George by the chin, tilting his face to the side. “Five hundred emeralds,” he scoffed. “Idiots.” 

“Don’t-“ Nick choked out, rattling the manacles, “Don’t touch-“ 

“Or what?” The hunter said, glancing over his shoulder at Nick. “What will you do?” 

“I’ll kill you,” he said, his voice low and scratchy, his eyes still dark and ringed with grey. “I’ll do it, don’t think I won’t-“ 

The manhunter rolled his eyes and turned back to George. “How is it you put up with him?” 

George didn’t answer. 

The hunter sighed. “If that's the way you want to do it.”

“What do you want,” George asked, his voice low. 

“Well,” he said, standing, “since you asked, we’ll cut right to the bone then, shall we? I know who you are, George Doyle. You’re that bloody cleric that managed to escape the culling. Not the only one, let’s be clear, but definitely the most annoying. Ran off, somehow managed to convince this young man-“ here he pointed at Clay, whose mask had been taken at some point, whose cheek was dark with a bruise “-to defect, wander off into the wide blue beyond. I saw you in Ravengrave, fighting along side the Novak kid, _and_ the Pig-Nosed Lord. I could, and probably should, just take you back to Ryan. Get the reward, warn him about what I can only assume is some kind of misguided revolution.” 

George felt sick. His throat felt thick and closed up. 

“But you’re not?” he managed to ask. The hunter loudly slapped both hands onto his thighs and stood, turning back towards Clay and Nick. 

“No,” he said, turning on his heels back towards George. “Bigger plans. You can guess, maybe. You seem smart.” 

George glanced to the side, where Clay and Nick were sitting. His eyes locked onto Clay’s. He hoped the expression conveyed confusion. Clay just shrugged. 

He glanced back over at the Gentleman who was grinning smugly. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” George said.

“Sure,” the hunter agreed magnanimously,“Of course.” 

There were a few seconds of tense silence.

“No, like, really,” George insisted. The self-satisfied smile started to slide of the manhunter’s face. 

“There’s no need to make this difficult,” he said, gently, taking a few steps closer. George heard the malice in the undertones anyway. 

He saw Nick struggle in the periphery of his vision, the chains clinking loudly together.

The hunter knelt down, staring at him intently. George just shook his head mutely. The man sighed. 

“Since you seem so intent on pretending to be stupider than you are,” he said quietly, “I’ll be clear. I want the Notch potion.” 

George’s eyebrows furrowed into a deep-set frown. Any fear he’d felt brewing in his gut was replaced with complete, overwhelming confusion.

“The _what?_ ” he asked.

“The Notch potion, cleric,” the hunter said, enunciating each word very carefully, anger rising in the back of his voice, “I want the thing that you drink that makes you immortal, or do I need to spell it out letter by letter for your tiny, stupid brain.” 

George just blinked at him, mouth wide open. He let out a breath of laughter which was cut off by the sharp slap of skin on his cheek. His head snapped to one side, face burning. He heard Clay and Nick yelling obscenities, threats. 

He turned back towards the hunter. “Don’t laugh at me, boy,” he said, low and dangerous, “I know you have it.” 

“It’s not real,” George insisted, “It’s- that’s not…it’s a baby story. It’s not real.”

The hunter scoffed. “Of course, like Endermen, and the Pig-Nosed Lord, right?” 

“Like the _Aether_ , or _necromancy chickens_ ,” George said, desperately, “it doesn’t exist.” 

The hunter hung his head, heaving another heavy sigh. “I don’t understand why you’re making this difficult. I didn’t want this to be difficult.” 

He got to his feet. 

“I know it’s not real, or it wasn’t, anyway,” he said, making his way over to the other side of the wall. There was a big heavy metal hook embedded in it. They’d dried herbs on it. Sometimes they’d hung up rabbits, waiting for the flesh to get dry enough to harvest the feet. 

The hunter tugged experimentally on the hook a few times. It didn’t budge. 

“You were working on it, though,” he said, maybe more to himself than anyone else, “why else would there be so many clerics in this useless, insignificant village?”

“Because-“

“Don’t interrupt me,” he said, turning over his head to glance at George. “Last chance to come clean.” 

“I’m telling you, it doesn’t exist, it’s not real, and even if it _was_ I don’t know how, _or_ have the stuff to make it,” George said, leaning forward. The manacles clanked noisily on his wrists. 

“Sure you do,” the manhunter said, tilting his head towards the corner of the room. George twisted to follow his gaze to the brewing stand and ancient, dusty chest. “Left all that here when they went to the capital.” 

George turned back to the manhunter. 

He remembered what Clay had said about them, how driven they’d been. 

The manhunter shrugged and made his way over to Clay and Nick. 

“They don’t-“

“I know,” he said, “but maybe they might be able to gently persuade you to do the smart thing.” 

He stood back, hands clasped behind his back, evaluating. 

“Ryan’s not happy with you, Dream,” he said, “He wants you in one piece. All those years of room and board just for you to run off with the first charity case you saw? Terribly ungrateful. Terribly treacherous.” 

“You gonna do his dirty work for him?” Dream asked, and there was a firm challenge in his voice but they all knew that there was pure, naked fear in his eyes. 

George felt like there was something on his chest. He glanced down, just to make sure he hadn’t been stabbed again while he wasn’t looking. 

The sensation was the same. 

“No, no,” the manhunter said, “quite the opposite. You, however,” he said, turning towards Nick, and George felt panic shoot through his toes, “he’s got no interest in you.” 

He reached down for the key ring that hung at his belt and unlocked the chain wrapped around the crossbeam. He grabbed Nick by the manacles still around his wrists and dragged him, hoisting him up and hooking the chain onto the metal hook on the opposite wall. Nick was stretched out, arms above his head, kicking out fruitlessly and snarling insults at the manhunter. 

The manhunter paid no mind, rolling up his shirt sleeves a little more. He picked up a large bit of wooden debris, leaning on it slightly. 

“They call me the Gentleman,” he said conversationally to George, “I thought you might want to know, considering that you’re insisting that we be here a while. Still not interested in making me that potion?” 

“I’m telling you, it doesn’t exist,” George said. His heart was pounding against his chest, his palms sweaty and hands shaking. 

The Gentleman gave a sad smile. “That’s a shame.” 

He hefted up the bit of debris and twisted, swinging it at Nick, colliding with a heavy _thump_ against his stomach. Nick grunted, face twisting up in pain before schooling itself back into a neutral scowl. 

Nick spat out a little spittle. “I’m gonna kill you,” he said, voice thick, “I’m going to kill you.” 

“Better men have tried and failed,” the Gentleman said, turning sharply back to George, “nothing coming to mind yet?” 

“I-“

“Pity,” he said. The Gentleman swung again, this time smacking it against Nick’s ribs. There was a sickening crunching noise and Nick let out another cry of pain, breathing harshly, wetly. 

“He doesn’t know anything,” Clay was trying, “He doesn’t-“

“Oh, shut _up,_ traitor,” the Gentleman said, rolling his eyes and turning back to Clay. It was a weird compounding of horror and relief, that at least his attention wasn’t on Nick for half a second, but then- 

“You’re trying to distract me,” the Gentleman said, hefting up the staff again, “it’s sweet, but I’m not stupid.” 

He circled Nick, swinging heavily at his stomach, his flanks, his ribs. He got three good swings in, each one landing with a horrible, sickening noise. 

“This stops whenever you want it to,” he said, catching his breath and turning back to George. 

“Then stop,” George choked out. 

“Then make me a Notch potion,” the Gentleman said, taking half a step towards George, kneeling down a little. 

“It’s… I-“ George tried. The Gentleman raised both his eyebrows and walked back to Nick, swinging again at the ribs. George watched them cave under the weight of the bat. He felt bile rise up in his throat. A new plan. He needed a new plan. 

“You’re not getting it,” he said, “you’ll have to pry it from my dead hands.” 

“Tempting,” he said, “but I know it’s not written down. I wasn’t born yesterday.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, heart in his throat. 

Nick groaned in pain. 

“How mature you are,” the Gentleman said, raising the bat again. _New plan new plan new plan-_

“Wait!” George said, “I’ll… I’ll tell you… I’ll-“ 

The Gentleman paused, dropping the makeshift bat. He walked over to George and crouched down, looking at him with interest. 

“You need netherwart, and then uh…the heart of a boar,” he said, panicking. It must’ve shown on his face. 

“You’re an awful liar,” he said, putting his face awfully close to George’s. “You really think I’m going to fall for that? Pathetic.” 

He made to stand up.

_New plan, new plan_

George reeled back and spat in the Gentleman’s face. 

There were a few moments of awful, tense silence, as the Gentleman stared at George with mad, burning hatred. 

“You think I’m fucking around, don’t you?” he said, wiping the spit from his face, “you think I’m just doing this for a laugh?” 

Nick coughed wetly.

“I want that potion, boy,” he said, standing and striding back to Nick, “I’ll have that potion. Whatever the price. Whatever it takes me, and whatever it costs _you_.” 

The Gentleman grabbed Nick by his ear and drew a knife from his belt. 

George’s heart stopped. His vision narrowed. 

  
Nick screamed in agony as dark blood ran down the side of his head and onto the Gentleman’s hand, staining it, dripping onto the tiles, the smell of iron thick in the air. 

He grabbed Nick and dragged him off the hook, throwing him to the floor. He turned back to George, eyes wild, and threw the severed ear down at his feet. 

George stared at it mutely. He felt blank. 

He saw Clay reach for Nick at the edges of his vision, trying to soothe him, trying to stem the bleeding, the chains around his wrists clinking under Nick’s screams. 

“I’m not fucking around here, little cleric,” the Gentleman said, voice calm and even. George looked him in the eyes, and found that same calmness in them. The Gentleman pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands clean. 

_We’ll die here,_ George thought, _we’ll die here if I don’t do something._

_(“When…” a distant voice echoed in his head.)_

“If you plan on getting out of here alive, I suggest-“ 

“I’ll do it,” George said, his voice calm, neutral. In control. He looked up and met the Gentleman’s eyes. 

A distant part of him was panicking, knowing that something was wrong, knowing that what he was going to do was unthinkable- 

He heard Nick’s screaming drop down to wet, pained wimpier.

“George-“ Clay was saying distantly, but George didn’t care to hear. His hands were steady and his gaze was steady and his mind was calm and sure. His jaw was set in grim determination. 

The Gentleman’s eyes widened in surprise almost imperceptibly. “Really?” 

“Yes,” George said, “I’ll do it. I’ll make you immortal. You win.” 

One corner of the Gentleman’s mouth curled up in surprise. He huffed a laugh, looking away. George saw the possibilities dancing in his eyes. He saw him picture his endless future. 

“Let me out. Release my hands,” George said, holding out his wrists as best he could. “I’m just a cleric. There’s nothing I can do to hurt you. I’m bound by my oath. Release me and I’ll do whatever you want.” 

“George, what are you doing?” Clay was asking, his voice cracking with desperation. George’s eyes flicked over to where he was lying, one hand clamped securely over the side of Nick’s head, blood seeping up around his fingers. Nick whined, his chest heaving with breath, the noise high and pathetic. Clay turned his attention back to Nick, squeezing his shoulder with his other hand, trying to find the words to comfort him. George turned back to the Gentleman. 

“Come on,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows, “please, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt them anymore.” 

The Gentleman’s eyes flashed with cruel enjoyment. “I promise no further harm will come to them.” 

“He’s lying, George, don’t-“ 

“Shut up,” the Gentleman hissed, turning to Clay, “I’ll-“ 

_(Deep shadows, ruined bricks, yellow teeth around grim words, “When the hunters came for me-“)_

“Release me,” George said, taking a step forward, “and you’ll be immortal by the end of the day.” 

The Gentleman turned back to George and looked at him, considering. 

“You have an hour,” he said, and pulled the ring of keys from off his belt. He turned the key in the lock of the shackles around his hands and they fell to the floor with a heavy clatter. 

“I’ll be quick,” George said. He was lead over to the brewing stand and surveyed what was there. He absently waved his hand over the stand and felt it hum to life, emanating a warm, comforting glow. He picked up a dusty, scratched bottle of old water, pulling some netherwart from a large jar on the floor and shoving it in. He swirled it around, watching the mushrooms dissolve, and set it against the blaze rods to slowly come to a boil. 

The ancient chest opened with a low groan, dust settling over every glass vial and cloth-wrapped component. He grabbed some glistening melon and started breaking it into small pieces, placing them in the bottle and turning the potion a dark colour. 

He thought about Nick’s ear on the dirty floor. 

As subtly as he could, he set a second potion to boil. He waited for the Gentleman to comment on it, but no such comment came. He chanced a glance over his shoulder to see the Gentleman lost in thought, staring into middle distance. 

He knew what he was doing was wrong. 

_(Stench of old books and bubbling potions, and a witch telling George that “When the hunters came for me, I did not turn belly up.”)_

He reached for the jar of spider’s eyes. 

The date etched into the lid indicated they’d been fermenting for two and a half years. A quarter of one was all you really needed for a medical-grade emetic. He unscrewed the jar with deft fingers and did his best not to retch at the stench floating up from the jar. He reached into the dark sludge and pulled out a whole eye, cramming it into the bottle. 

He felt sick.

_(“When the hunters came for me, I did not turn belly up,” she’d said, “I did what I had to.”)_

He reached in and grabbed a second, peeling the membrane from it and squeezing in the liquid. It ran neatly into the bottle, aimed with years of practice. He tossed the spent skin aside, and reached in for a third one, hands steady.

“That’s a lot of effort for such a small potion,” the Gentleman said. 

“If it was easy,” George said, giving the potion a cursory swirl, “everyone would be immortal.” 

He watched the potion turn a deep, dark colour. He watched it thicken, watched as fat bubbles slowly formed on the top and popped with an audible noise. 

He burned his fingers as he pulled it from the stand. He grabbed a small vial of glowing yellow powder and tipped a hearty amount in, swirling it around the thick, tar-like liquid. 

He turned back to the Gentleman, arm outstretched. 

_(“I did what I had to.”)_

“Here,” George said, “Drink.” 

_(“I did what I had to.”)_

“You have to drink it all in one go, or it won’t work.” 

_(“I did what I had to.”)_

“It loses its potency after a while. Quickly.” 

_(“I did what-”)_

The Gentleman took it and greedily sucked it down. Over his shoulder he could see Clay looking on, expression wide and horrified, his mouth was hanging open. He was covered in Nick’s blood.

_(“I did-”)_

The gentleman threw the empty bottle to the ground and it shattered with a sharp, high sound. He started coughing. 

_(“I-“)_

“I…I feel a little light-headed,” he said. George turned back to him and watched as his face began to turn blue. As he fell to his knees. As he started gagging. 

“That’s how you know it’s working,” he said, looking down at him. He started vomiting, thick dark bile laboriously falling from his mouth, the smell of blood thick in the air, his eyes going big and bloodshot. 

George stared down at him impassively. 

“What-“ the Gentleman choked out, struggling for breath, “what did you do to me?” 

George crouched down, face impassive, hands steady, steadier than they’d been in his life. He grabbed the Gentleman by his hair, gently tilting his face to the side just enough to get a good look into his eyes. When he spoke his voice was even. Soft. Calm. 

“What I had to.” 

He gave one last, painful, struggling breath, and collapsed to the ground. 

Dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said monthly updates, but this one is different because the next chapter is an intermission and will be up on Friday, so check back in on the 22nd! 
> 
> For updates on updates and me contributing nothing to the mcyt fan community follow me on twitter @SnakeHognose! 
> 
> 🐍Snakey Love 🐍
> 
> Hiss Hiss
> 
> Minor edits made 16/02/2021: Foreshadowing for Chapter 7 added


	6. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur and Philza interview a new scribe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Here's a short intermission as a reward for making it through the week! 
> 
> CW: Brief discussion of death.

Wilbur lounged on the throne, reclined grandly, one leg crossed over the other, his sword leaning against the throne. Phil was to his left, wearing the long black coat he always wore, face neutral and blank. 

The throne was elevated slightly, raised a few feet off the ground with seven short steps leading up to it. If you looked closely, you could notice the nicks in the wood, the scratches, the uneven carving, the slightly splotchy dye of the cushions. Signs that it was made by the unsteady hands of volunteers. Dan had always gotten grouchy when they were pointed out, but Wilbur liked them. Like the flat golden circlet that was perched around his ears, slightly lumpy and clearly showing where the hammer had flattened it, the imperfections were a mark of something. They'd been made by people who believed in things, people who hadn't been worried that subpar work would be met with punishment. 

They were marks of a brighter future. Wilbur had tried to articulare this to Dan several times, who would snort derisively and call him a terrible poet. 

He'd tried to get Phil's opinion on the imperfections once. Phil had just shrugged and said that they were what they were, frustratingly neutral, but Wilbur caught sight of the self satisfied grin on his face as he turned away and left him and Dan squabbling again. 

In front of them stood a girl, around their age, with long black hair tied up in a ponytail. A few strands had escaped, making her look slightly disshevled. Wilbur rolled the profile around in his mind, trying to remember if he had seen her before. 

“Ehlonna, yes?” he asked, his voice distant, detached, distracted. He thought it made him sound kingly. He was maybe having too much fun being the Lord of the Domain. He saw Phil roll his eyes in his periphery. She nodded. 

“Yes. That’s me,” she said, and smiled politely. Brynn scribbled the interaction down in her tome, on the ground level to Wilbur's right, seated behind a heavy lecturn. 

“You requested two weeks off,” Wilbur said, and it wasn’t a question, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to deny the request.” 

“I see,” she said, and fiddled with the sleeve of her jacket. “It’s just, uh, it’s my grandmother, Mr. Soot, she’s unwell.” 

Wilbur twisted his smile into something he hoped looked rueful. “I understand. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we really cannot spare any people at this point in time. With Lord Techno away on business, we’re stretched thin as we are. All hands on deck.” 

“You have Brynn, though, Mr. Soot,” she said, gesturing to where Brynn was scribbling away in a book, and she really looked on the verge of tears, “I-“

“Yes, and poor Brynn is overworked as it is,” he said. The scratching stopped for half a second and then picked up again, matched by the crackling of a large fire off to the left. 

“But if Lord Techno is away…doing….”

“Scouting,” he lied easily, “we’re looking to expand. The latest news is that we expect a group of refugees will be arriving shortly.” 

“Scouting where?” she asked. Wilbur shrugged. 

“Around.” 

There were two beats of silence. She put her hands into her jacket pockets. 

“Are you cold, Ehlonna?” Wilbur asked, in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. She shook her head. 

“No, I didn’t think it seemly to appear before the throne in anything less than my best,” she said, and smiled in embarrassment. Wilbur smiled graciously. 

“I am sorry about your grandmother,” he said, sympathetically, “truly, I am. But we all must make sacrifices.” She looked down, and then nodded. 

“I understand,” she said, her voice small.

“Thank you,” he said, “your contribution to your King will not be forgotten.” 

She smiled up at him, wide and earnest , and bowed her head again. 

“In any event,” Wilbur said, and turned his head away from her to reach behind the throne, “I have some reading for you. Lord Techno’s handwriting is unbelievably poor. If we’re going to keep historical records, someone must make them legible, and I think Brynn’s plate is full.” He turned back, and she was watching with wide eyes as Wilbur produced a thick, old notebook. He held it out for her to take. “If you could transcribe these into another tome, but perhaps make them neater, you would be doing us a great service.” 

She nodded, taking two steps towards the throne. She reached one hand out as she went, but Wilbur withdrew the book slightly. 

“It’s heavy,” he said. “You will need two hands to hold it.” 

She blinked, one foot on the first step towards the throne. 

Wilbur hardly dared to breathe. His heart was hammering in his chest. He couldn’t believe Dan lived like this. 

She looked down, to where one hand was still tucked in her jacket pocket, and removed it suddenly, like she had forgotten it was there. She smiled apologetically at him, took the final steps towards the throne, and took the book in both hands. She took it, bowed again, and backed down from the throne. 

“You may go,” he said. She turned and left, notebook protectively clutched to her chest.

As the doors shut with a heavy thunk, Wilbur turned a sidelong glance at Phil, whose hand was halfway to where his sword hung, concealed beneath his coat. 

* * *

“I’m just not sure,” Phil said, as they made their way through the halls of the castle, “there was something… _off_ about her.” 

“You’ve caught Dan’s paranoia,” Wilbur said, dodging out of the way of a guard, “she was just nervous because she’d been summoned _. I_ get nervous every time Dan summons me and I've known him since he was in his sheep-fear phase.” 

“Still,” Phil said, as they reached the stairs to the second floor, “it wouldn’t do any harm to keep an eye on her, would it? I mean, that stuff in that notebook is sensitive information.” 

“We can’t just spy on everyone in the castle!” 

“I wasn’t saying we should spy on _everyone_ , just _her._ ”

“Look,” Wilbur said, coming to an abrupt stop at the top of the stairs, "if we start chasing our own tails, we’ll _never_ catch the Mad King. We need to focus. The others are probably nearly at his-“ 

“ _Shush_ ,” Phil hissed, glancing up and down at the empty hallway. Wilbur rolled his eyes. 

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Phil by the arm and marching him down the hallway, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

  
  
Phil sighed. “Yeah…yeah. I’m gonna head to my room for the rest of the day, let me know if you need anything.” Wilbur nodded, gave him a friendly pat on the back, and turned towards Techno’s room, where he was currently staying.

The room was at the end of the hallway, large, and grand, with the most comfortable bed, and best view of the city. Paintings lined the walls, and there was a grand desk against one wall. It was a room fit for a king. He shut the door behind him and locked it, placing the crown on the dark oak dresser and crossing to the other side of the room.

Wilbur opened the windows wide and leaned out into the chilly evening air. The city stretched out before him, the sounds of people roving, settling down for the evening. A city of refugees.  


He and Dan had stood here to watch the sunset plenty of times. Wilbur always mentioned how far they'd come, how big the city had grown, and remember when they first arrived to this empty field with nothing but tents? How satisfying it was to see people living normal, happy, free lives. People in the city they had built together with their own two hands.  


He avoided mentioning all the other things that had happened when they'd arrived. Dan always seemed embarassed about the time he'd spent bed-bound, partly from the fight, partly from the exile. 

On a good day, Dan would agree. There'd be a quiet sort of accomplishment in his eyes. 

Wilbur stood there a while, watching the sunset, listening to the sounds of the castle simmer down with the ending of the day, straining his ears for the sounds of footsteps. None came. 

_Time for plan B_ , he thought, and vaulted himself out of the window. 

There was a second where he was free-falling, with all the tingling in his toes that came with a freefall, before he grabbed onto one of the decorative buttresses, swinging up so he was crouching on top of it. He sprung forwards, scrambling over the smooth, evenly spaced decor, going around the wall until he found himself outside Phil’s window. He knocked three times and crouched down, waiting.

The room was grand, had the best view, the comfiest bed, walls lined with paintings. It was a room fit for a king. It was why Dan never slept in it. 

Wilbur hadn't really understood why, until...

Well. Until today. Until the last two weeks, where they'd had to seriously consider the presence of a spy in the heart of the domain. 

He still felt a pang of loss at the thought of the lush, soft matress that was just going unused. 

The windows swung inwards and Phil was there, offering a hand down. Wilbur grabbed it, climbing up the wall and into the room. Phil shut the window behind him. 

“Do you think she bought it?” he asked, as Wilbur stood, bent double, catching his breath. 

“I think she was too distracted by the notebook full of secrets to notice much else,” he said, dusting his hands off. He glanced over at Phil, who let out a sigh. 

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” He asked, leaning against the window. Wilbur shook his head. 

“No clue,” he said. “I think if we give it a week to see if she takes the bait, then we might have to start doing stupider plans.”

Phil let out a low chuckle. “Stupider plans like what?”

Wilbur hesitated, and then went to press his ear against the door. The hallway was empty and silent. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update's coming on 20/02, so see you then!
> 
> 🐍Snakey Love 🐍
> 
> Hiss Hiss


	7. In The Cleric’s Tower // The Northen Shore of Kirton Lake // The Foothills of Autumnmaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George, Dream, and Sapnap deal with the consequences. 
> 
> Techno, Tommy, and Tubbo find their way to the reunion with their friends
> 
> Skeppy and Bad Boy Halo look for a way out of the hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Here it is! I hope everyone enjoys! Thanks for all the kudos and love on the last few chapters (crazy to think we're only half-done!) Not a lot of preamble from me but I will say
> 
> CW: Amputation, gore, medical stuff, insomnia, nightmares (mild), mentions of corpses, mentions of panic attacks.

George stared impassively down at the corpse in front of him, dark bile still bubbling up around his lips, frothing, dripping onto the grey stone floor.

He should be panicking, he thought, he should be planning for the future, maybe, or mourning the loss of his old life.

His old life had died. His old life had died long before now, he recognised distantly, it died the day he first saw Dream cresting a ridge, the day his home had gone up in a blaze of light, the day that the Mad King had signed the order to have Clerics culled.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Nick let out another high-pitched whine, Clay shushing him, the heavy iron chains clanging against each other.

He’d done enough thinking.

He knelt down and started riffling through the pockets of the corpse, pulling out a few smooth, uneven emeralds and tossing them to the ground. He pocketed a vial of dried milk, discarded the bloodied knife, and eventually his hand closed around the ring of keys. He yanked it roughly out and stepped over the corpse towards his friends.

Clay flinched backwards, arms tightening protectively around Nick.

George told himself it was out of surprise and not fear.

It almost worked.

He set his jaw and knelt down, quickly flicking through the keys, trying each one in the lock around Clay’s wrists. One cluncked satisfyingly and Clay released his hold on Nick for just long enough to rip off the shackles and toss them aside.

Up close, George saw the dark smear of blood just under his hairline. He could deal with that, he was-

Well.

He unlocked the shackles around Clay’s ankles, then moved on to Nick.

“Sit him more upright,” George said once the manacles were sitting uselessly on the ground. His voice was rough and hoarse.

“George-“

“Lying puts the wrong pressure on his chest,” he said, standing, forcing himself back in the direction of the severed ear, “it’ll be easier for him to breathe if he’s sitting up.”

“George, you…”

He felt his hands begin to shake. Not now. He bent and picked up the ear, trying not to grimace at the feeling of the still-warm cartilage, still clammy, slightly grimy from the filthy floor. He turned back towards the brewing stand, stepping over the still gently gurgling, still frothing corpse. He scooped up another bottle of water from the ancient barrel and set it to boil.

The first potion was bubbling now, lively and animated, in contrast to the corpse behind him, sluggishly-

Not now.

He burned his fingers on the bottle as he pulled it from the stand, leaving it to cool for a moment, distantly remembering something about how it takes less than three seconds for tissue to be damaged by hot water, doing his best to wipe some of the grime off, trying not to let himself feel sick. Trying not to let his hands shake.

George fished out the cloth that had been covering the ancient glistening melons from the cleric’s chest. He folded it a few times, dampening it with hot water. He turned and tossed it to Clay who’d pulled Nick into a slightly more upright position, Nick leaning back against Clay’s chest, Clay leaning back against the wall. Clay caught it with one hand, eyes still dark and wide, giving George a panicked, hunted, wounded look.

“Just-“ George paused to clear his throat, “Try to wipe off the blood.” He turned back to the brewing stand, if only to avoid the _look_ Clay was giving him, he was always giving him a _look_ , he could never keep anything like fear or horror or anger or sadness off his face, he was always-

“George, what does-“ Clay started. George squeezed his eyes shut, balled his hands up into fists to keep them from shaking, to keep himself from shaking apart.

“Not-“ he bit out, sounding scraped raw and hurt. He swallowed it down, “Not now. Not now.”

Clay didn’t have any follow-up questions.

George breathed deeply in through his nose. Felt himself swell with breath. Thought about where the air went, how it entered his lungs and diffused into his blood and rushed through his body with every thum-thump thum-thump thum-thump of his heart. He felt his lungs ache in the old familiar way, the stifling unnatural stiffness in his body. He let it out in a rush.

Not now. Not now.

He poured some water over the ear, blood and dirt and sweat all running off it into a puddle on the floor, seeping into the cracks in the flagstone, seeping into the dirt below. The ear tightly clutched in one hand, he scooped up a fistful of netherwart and dropped it into the other potion, digging noisily around in the chest for the hardened pearl-like shape of a ghast tear.

He dropped it into the potion and watched it fizz, change colour. He started counting down from a hundred and twenty in his head. He took broad strides back over to Nick and Clay, sidestepping the body, kneeling down on Nick’s bad side. _Ninety-three_.

Clay had a dark-stained cloth in his hand, the line of the sever now visible, the excess blood wiped away.

“Hold him still,” George said, and Clay moved to brace Nick’s head more firmly against his shoulder, over his heart. Nick wasn’t screaming anymore, just breathing heavily, raggedly.

“Nick,” he said, trying to force himself to be gentle, “Sapnap, hey, listen, take deep breaths.”

“What is that?” Clay asked, eyes on the potion in George’ hand. _Eighty._

George breathed deep, kept his hands from shaking, tried not to be incensed by the question. He knew what he was doing, he was a-

Well.

Not now, not now.

“Regen potion,” he said, eyes focused on the side of Nick’s head, not daring to meet Clay’s eyes, “it-“

_It loses its potency after a while. Quickly_

“It only works for…for like…”

_Seventy-Five._

“George?” Nick’s voice was rough and calloused and sad and scared and-

“Deep breaths, Sap,” he said absently. He glanced up at Clay, chancing a look.

Fear. Panic. Concern. Something else he didn’t have the time to parse out, not now, not-

“Hold him still,” he insisted, and placed the severed ear against the curve of the wound, focusing on keeping his hands steady, to line it up carefully and evenly, to place it straight, to not fuck it up, to not fuck it up like he’d fucked everything else up. He placed his thumb over half the opening of the potion bottle and carefully poured the potion out in a thin, even, steady stream over the wound.

It hissed and smoked when it came into contact with the skin.

Nick was screaming in pain again, howling, the flesh bubbling and melting and hissing, the smell of burning flesh thick in the air. Nick kicking out, trying to writhe and get away. Held tight by Clay.

George fought to keep his hands steady, to pour the potion steady and straight, to go slow in spite of the screaming.

The flesh bubbled and melted, knitting itself back together before their eyes, deep knots of scars emerging at the place ear joined head.

Clay was yelling something, George noticed distantly, asking questions George didn’t hear, demanding explanations George didn’t have. He was keeping Nick’s head steady. It was enough.

“Stop-“ Nick was gasping, against the pain, against the broken rib and the burning and the hissing, “stop, stop, please stop, please, _please_ -“

The skin on George’s thumb was blistering and healing, blistering and healing.

He came to the base of the sever, by the earlobe, and paused a moment. Nick’s breathing was ragged and wet.

_Thirty-five_.

“Tilt his head a little,” George said, voice steady, hands steady, “I need-“

He lifted the vial again, but a hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist. George’s eyes flicked over to Clay’s face, pale, eyes wide in panic concern _fear-_

“What are you _doing_?” he hissed, and there was really no escaping the cold and hollow terror in his voice.

“What-“

_I did what I had to._ George felt the breath leave him in one sudden wheeze, like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“I-“ he choked out, “reattaching the… to stop…”

He couldn’t get his thoughts in order. They didn’t have the time for this. _Twenty_.

“Trust me,” George said. “Please. Please trust me.” _I know you can’t. I know you can’t._

Something cracked in Clay’s expression. Something softened. He nodded, and wordlessly tilted Nick’s head further to the side, trying to shush his broken pleading.

The screaming was just as bad the second time around, guttural and breaking, hoarse, the noises tearing their way out of his throat.

By the time the vial was empty, Nick’s ear was fused back to the skin on the side of his head, surrounded by thick knots of tough scar tissue. It was still steaming.

Nick was panting for breath, wheezy, letting out pained whimpers still. Clay was trying to shush up, one hand stroking up and down Nick’s arm too quick to be comforting.

Even now, all this time later, Clay did that when he panicked. When someone was in distress and he had to be the one to do something about it, he couldn’t ever slow down enough to be properly comforting. George knew it well. It was endearing, one of a hundred tiny details that made up Clay.

It hurt, watching in from the outside. He kind of wanted to cry, but didn’t think he could, particularly given-

Not now.

Nick’s ribs were still broken. George got to his feet and wiped his sweaty palms down his thighs, took a few paces back. Clay was too focused on Nick to notice, who was starting to quiet down a little.

He glanced to his right, through into the mostly-intact room they used to keep overnight patients. One of the bedframes had collapsed, but the other two were in one piece. One of the mattresses would need replacing, something having come through and scratched it open, sending loose hay and feathers scattering over the floor.

He looked back, and Clay was watching him.

“I…” George started, and stopped abruptly. Not now. “We should find somewhere more comfortable to prop him up. It’ll be better on his ribs.”

Clay nodded, still rubbing up and down Nick’s arm. George made his way over to their pile of stuff, grabbing his axe and settling it back on his belt. It felt heavier. Maybe he was just tired. He grabbed Clay’s sword, sheathed in its scabbard, and gently tossed it over.

Clay caught it, barely even glancing up at it. He tucked it close to his side.

George picked his way through the rubble, going to clamber over the crossbeam collapsed in front of the doorway.

“Where-“ Clay started.

“I’ll go look for another mattress,” George said, “There might be one somewhere else in the village.”

“Should…are you like, good to be out there on your own?” George barked a laugh, and glanced over his shoulder at Clay, covered in blood, in Nick’s blood, in his own blood, eyes wide, bloodshot. The corpse of the Gentleman still lay face down between them.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, and clambered over the crossbeam.

_I’m a witch now. Anything out there should be afraid of_ me _._

* * *

He moved carefully through the village, pausing every so often to listen for footsteps. None came, no sounds at all other than the hollow tinkling of a few still-hanging windchimes.

Most of the area around the Cleric’s had been destroyed, the houses little more than piles of rubble and cobblestone. George turned back towards the larger square.

He caught sight of something in his peripheral vision and flinched back, hand going to his axe, but it was only his reflection in the grimy glass of the butcher’s home. He let out a sigh of relief, laughing a little. He clenched his hands against the shaking.

He shouldn’t, he knew. He couldn’t help himself.

He took a few cautious steps closer to the window.

He looked awful. His hair was sticking up all over the place, and a dark bruise was blooming up on his right cheekbone. He looked pale, a little sallow, maybe.

He pulled at his skin and turned his face to the side. No warts, yet, at least. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling and smoothing it down to check his roots. They didn’t _look_ grey but it was kind of hard to tell. He ran his tongue across his teeth, which didn’t feel any sharper, and a cursory snarl in the make-shift mirror didn’t show them much yellower either.

Looking at him, you’d never know that he’d done one of the most heinous things imaginable. He’d betrayed all the ideals he’d ever followed. If you passed him in the street, you’d never know that he’d subjected another living breathing human to one of the slowest and most painful deaths he knew of.

He looked bad.

He didn’t look like a _witch_ , though.

He wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

Deep in the shadows of the butcher’s, he saw the shape of something vaguely bed-like. Right. He was in the middle of something.

He went around to the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, coughing through the cloud of dust that rose up around him. The mattress he’d seen was slumped in the corner, pretty much intact, and he heaved it over his shoulder and forced it out through the door.

It was heavy, and the going was slow, but George was grateful for it. It meant he didn’t have time to pause and watch the ghosts reflected back at him in every dusty window, every loose shard of broken glass that littered the street. A thousand hollow-eyed men watching him, waiting to see what he’d do next. Asking what now, Georgie, what now, _what now-_

Not now. Nick and Clay were waiting.

He reached the cleric’s again, slightly sweaty, and started trying to shove the mattress in through the too-small gap in the doorway. Someone grabbed it from the other side and yanked it through, letting it drop to the ground with a thick _thwump._

George climbed in, out of breath. He managed a ‘thanks’, and started heaving the mattress through, trying not to drag it along the ground.

He felt it lift, suddenly several pounds lighter. A cursory glance over his shoulder revealed Clay, seemingly effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it through into the back room. Clay let go just long enough to toss the ruined mattress off the bed and to the ground, sending hay and feathers absolutely everywhere.

George laughed, in spite of himself. Clay let out a nervous chuckle, like he wasn’t sure if it was funny. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“Come on,” Clay said, grabbing the mattress again, and together they hoisted it up onto the bedframe.

“Get the bedrolls and stuff and lay them out,” George said, dusting off his hands. Clay nodded, and paused as he passed by. He looked like he wanted to say something.

George waited for whatever condemnation was going to come.

Clay just gave him two heavy pats on the shoulder and strode past, noisily sorting through the piles of their belongings.

Nick was propped up against the wall, one hand spread wide over his chest.

Right.

George went back over to the brewing station, desperately trying to ignore the corpse even as he nimbly stepped over it, and waved his hand over the brewing stand as it hummed to life. He set several more ancient bottles of water against the blaze rods. A quick raid through the chest revealed several tightly-wound bandages and cloth compresses. On auto-pilot, he made his way back to Nick, who gave him a thin, pained smile. He flinched when George knelt on his bad side.

George told himself it was a reflex, a reaction to pain, to injury. Self preservation.

_It didn’t make it any better. It didn’t make it any better that Nick was scared of him, Nick the bravest and dumbest and most bullheaded loveable moron George had ever met, his oldest friend, the last thing he had left of the live he’d lived before, the life he’d never have back, not now, not-_

Not now.

“I’m just going to put a compress on the ear,” George said, holding up the bandages, “so it doesn’t like… fall off randomly when you do something dumb.

Behind him, ferrying blankets and pillows and whatever else, Clay snorted. Nick rolled his eyes weakly but obligingly turned his head to the side.

It didn’t look any better. The scarring was thick and the ear was a little grey, something about the look of it was unnatural and unnerving. George gently but firmly pressed a thick cotton pad to it as Nick hissed in a wince.

“The pain’ll go in, like, a couple days,” George said as he carefully wound gauze around Nick’s head to keep the compress in place.

Nick gave a heavy, weary sigh. “Why…why’d you do that?”

Guilt churned thick and heavy in his gut. “I know, it hurts, but like, it’s back on your head, and it’s the best way to stop-“

“No, no,” Nick said, turning back towards George. George glanced up to meet Nick’s gaze. His eyes were sad, exhausted and sad, weary and sad, defeated and sad, so so sad. He turned his gaze back towards where it’d previously rested and George followed his line of sight back to the Gentleman’s corpse, still lying in a heap on the floor, still lying in a pool of his own bloody vomit.

“That,” Nick said, his voice hoarse and rough. “Why’d you have to do that?”

George didn’t have an answer for that one.

He noticed at some point his hands had stopped their winding. He went back to it, securing the bandages in a tight knot over the compress. He lightly ran his fingers down Nick’s chest, feeling the swelling even through Nick’s clothes.

“Deep breath in,” he said, and Nick sucked in a deep, careful breath. George glanced up and saw pain in the set of his jaw.

“Uh… can you like… cough?” he asked hesitantly. He heard Nick snort derisively, but force a couple coughs all the same. He coughed a few times into his hand in earnest. George grabbed his wrist and examined the hand.

No blood. That was good. They could work with that.

“They’re definitely broken,” he said, getting to his feet, “but I don’t think your lungs are like. Fucked up.”

Nick snorted again, “Thanks doc,” he said dryly.

They both froze, sharing a loaded look. One corner of Nick’s mouth twitched down. _I’m sorry._

George shook his head and shrugged. _It’s whatever._

He saw Clay hovering anxiously in his peripheral vision, and nodded his head towards Nick.

“Get him into bed,” he said, and turned back towards the brewing stand so he wouldn’t have to watch them painstakingly make their way into the back room.

He opened the jar of Netherwart again and dumped two heaping fistfuls into each boiling bottle, pausing at the third.

Nick would be laid up for a few days, probably. He should teach Clay how to do this.

He left one alone, leaving it to bubble away. He'd use that as a demonstration. Yeah. Clay learned by doing stuff. 

He dusted his hands off and reached down for another half of a glistening melon, going to dig his fingers into the flesh and pausing.

The jar of spider’s eyes was sitting malevolently on the table. Disgusting disembodied eyes floating in a dark, unspeakably bad smelling liquid. He’d had his fingers in that jar not moments ago. He remembered the slightly nauseating give of the eyes, the thick sticky liquid coating his fingers.

He was keenly aware of the stench now rising up from the Gentleman’s corpse.

Really, there wasn’t stopping him from reaching in again. What was holding him back now? No oath, not moral obligations. No old men or women whose memories he had to honour. Ghosts.

He could poison Clay and Nick now. He could go back to Techno and tell him they’d been killed by manhunters, then poison him and Tommy and Theo too. He could slither his way through the whole court of the Mad King and get them all, weed them out, a few drops in a soup or stew would do, leave them all in a bloodied heap somewhere they wouldn’t be found. He could sit on the throne and poison everyone in the kingdom, take the crown from the cold fingers of the kingly corpse and rule the ashes.

What was stopping him?

Nothing.

The thought made him sick. Nothing. He’d dnoe it once before. He could do it again, at any moment, at the slightest-

He had to go.

If he hurt Techno, Theo, Tommy, Nick, _Clay…_

He had to go. The sooner the better.

He was still holding the half of a glistening melon in his hands, fingertips digging into the soft rind. He put it back in the chest.

He wiped his hands down the front of his shirt. The thick, sticky feeling of spider-eye lingered on his hands.

Better have Clay do all this anyway. He learned by doing, after all, and practice does...something. He'd get Clay to do it. Just in case. Just in case.

He felt his hands begin to shake. He girted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, taking deep, purposeful breaths, calming them.

He had to make sure Nick was in one piece. He had to teach Clay how to make a healing potion. Then he had to go. The sooner the better.

He made his way into the overnight room, where Nick was sitting, propped up against the headboard, surrounded by pillows. His shoes were kicked off in the middle of the room.

Nick was always doing that, he remembered. It drove his grandpa crazy.

Clay chucked an extra blanket at his face. Nick laughed a little, wincing.

“You should get out of the jacket, if you can,” George said, kicking the boots into a corner. Nick looked up at him and the smile froze on his face. He nodded and started grimly struggling out of it. Clay went to help, holding the coat and trying to manhandle Nick out of it. Nick grumbled at him but accepted the help.

George hovered in the doorway.

“Shouldn’t we like,” he said, turning to George, “bandage him up, or something?”

George shook his head. “Yo leave the ribs to just like, do their own thing. He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t pop his lung doing something dumb.”

“I’m not gonna do anything dumb,” Nick grumbled.

“’Anything dumb’ includes climbing trees, I’m pretty sure,” Clay said, glancing at George. George nodded. Nick rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” George said, nodding his head back towards the other room, “let me show you how to make a healing potion.”

Maybe this would be the last thing he’d do with his Cleric training. He’d teach Clay how to make a health potion and then leave. Old Al might be proud of him, in a weird way. Sometimes helping was stitching a wound shut, sometimes helping was teaching someone else to stitch a wound shut. Or something.

“Why can’t you do it?” Clay asked. George glanced over at him, at the genuine confusion on his face, in the set of his eyebrows.

_Don’t make me say it,_ George thought.

“’Cause…” George trailed off helplessly.

Clay was still giving him a confused, blank look.

“I…” he shrugged, struggling to find the words.

“He’s going,” Nick said, voice rough. George tore his eyes off Clay and glanced over at Nick, who was staring out the window. Clay had turned towards him as well, a heavy silence settling over them.

“Wh...what?” Clay asked, genuinely confused. He turned back to George. “You’re leaving?”

Looking at him hurt. That cracked open expression, the disbelief and horror in his eyes. He hadn’t looked like that since the Nether, and at least then George had been too busy dying to think much of it.

He glanced down at the bed spread, their bedrolls and blankets thrown together to keep Nick warm whilst he recovered. One of them was singed slightly, when they’d gone camping in the dead of winter at Nick’s insistence and George had slept a little too close to the fire.

“He’s a witch now,” Nick said, his voice was thin and distant, “he’s gotta go... put himself into exile.”

Clay laughed a little again, the sound high and nervous.

“That’s not funny,” he said, cajoling, “you suck, Nick, I know you’re all like, hurt or whatever, but come on-“

“He’s right,” George said, quietly. “I’m…yeah.”

There was a long, thick silence.

“Go, then,” Nick said, and George looked up at him. His face was blank, maybe carefully so, his eyebrows furrowed. One hand was clutching the blankets so tight that his whole arm was shaking. “If you’re going. Don’t…draw it out.”

It cut. It stung. George nodded.

He should say something. Apologise. Thank him. Something about how he was glad that they’d had months more than he ever thought he’d get with him. In spite of it all. In spite of how it ended.

“George-“ Clay said.

George looked up at Clay, and _that_ was a mistake- he was still wearing that same cracked open wounded expression, the one that looked like he was dying, or that George was dying.

He wanted to fix things. All he’d ever wanted was to fix things, to help. It felt like all he did was break things.

George tucked his head down against his chin and turned back towards the pile of their things. He grabbed his pack, his cloak, and slung both around his shoulders and pushed his way out of the overnight room, climbed over the crossbeam and out into the cold evening.

_What now, Georgie, what now?_

“So, what now?” he heard Clay call. He clenched his hands into fists and resolutely did not turn to look at him. “All this time and you’re, what? Going home?”

“No,” George bit out, because he didn’t fucking get it, “I can’t. I-“

He couldn’t say it. He squeezed his eyes shut. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

“Then what? You’re just gonna walk off, leave us to go and take out the Mad King ourselves?” he heard Clay take a couple steps closer.

George turned around suddenly, violently, met Clay’s gaze with all the fury he could muster. Clay was just staring back at him, glowering, face dark and furious, a few feet away, standing just outside the Cleric’s.

“What are you-“

“I killed for this, George!” Clay yelled, and took another step forward. “I killed my friends, I killed people I had known for years-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” he bit back, feeling bile rise up in his throat. He tried not to remember the look on Clay’s face, illuminated by the low yellow glow of the torch he’d held and how he hadn’t spoken for days after they buried his friend.

The image of Clay, shaking, choking back sobs, leaning on George’s shoulder was burned into the back of his eyes anyway.

“I know, but I did it, I did it because it was what was right,” Clay said, and gave George a shove. George took a step backwards, fighting to keep his balance.

“This is different,” George ground out, willing his voice to come evenly, “you-“

“George, listen, what we did was exactly the same-“

“You did that to protect people!” George yelled into the stillness of the evening, “to protect _me_ , you did it because-“

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I don’t need your guilt over that, okay? Believe me, I’m carrying plenty of my own.”

George felt sick.

“Yes, I did it to protect you and Nick, I did it because he would have killed you both, I did it because it was what my instincts said, but I also did it because it was what would keep us alive long enough to meet up with the rest of our friends and take down the-“

“Fine, okay, you did it for all those noble reasons, that’s so great for you-“

“I’m trying to tell you that what you did was the same!” Clay cried, exasperated. He gestured towards the tower, where George knew the bloated body of the Gentleman still lay, gurgling. “ _You_ had to get us out of there, you were the only one who could-“

“And I broke my oath to do it, Clay!” he gestured to the rubble surrounding them. “You don’t fucking get it, that oath was all I had, it was all I had left, okay? I worked my whole life to swear that oath, I put so many people in danger just because I wanted to help, and now where am I?”

“George-“

“I’m an oathbreaker,” George said, gathering steam, and it was alarming to feel like he had no idea what was about to come out of his mouth, “I’m a witch.”

“What are you-“

“We kill witches, Clay, we’ve killed witches before, and once you’re done playing anarchist you’re gonna go out and kill witches again, and heroes like you go out, and you kill witches like me, because I’m-“

“ _That’s_ what this is about?” Clay yelled, anger and disbelief, “After everything, _everything_ we’ve been through, you’re still worried that I’m gonna kill you?”

“No, idiot,” George yelled back, and he felt hot angry tears leak out of the corners of his eyes, “I’m worried you won’t be able stop me when _I_ try to kill _you!”_

There was a long moment of silence, and George watched Clay’s face screw up in furious confusion.

“What the fuck are you even _talking_ about?”

“I could kill you at any time, Clay, there’s nothing stopping me from just…just making a bunch of poisons, or-or going for your weak spots, or-“

“Do it, then,” Clay said, arms spread wide, and that made George stop in his tracks. It made his vision go kind of funny.

“Fuck you,” George said, “this isn’t a game, Clay.”

“I’m being serious,” Clay said, “make a poison, and put it in my hands, and I’ll drink it, and then I’ll think you’re even like, the _slightest_ bit likely to hurt me on purpose.”

“It might not _be_ on purpose!”

“What, you’re just going to like, trip and accidentally pour a bunch of spider’s eyes into a potion?”

“That’s not funny. You don’t get it!”

“I don’t!” Clay yelled.

“I did the _one_ thing I said I’d never do,” George said, his chest aching, and maybe he hadn’t been breathing properly recently. “I _swore_ , in front of everyone that I’d never do that.” He pointed back to the ruins of the clerics, the words clawing their way up his throat and out of his mouth.

“ _Everything_ I thought I knew about myself, all that I had of the person I was when I lived here- it’s-“ George gasped for breath, feeling

“I don’t-“ he gasped. Clay took a step closer and George took one back, backing out into the street.

“I don’t-“ he was starting to feel a little light headed.

“I don’t know if I can trust-“ he managed. His hands were shaking, and he was heaving in deep breaths.

_I killed him. I poisoned him. I broke my oath._

Clay was there, suddenly, hands tight on his biceps, holding him in place-

No, George realized distantly, holding him _up,_ his knees had started to buckle. George looked up at him, waiting for that awful hurt angry expression.

Clay just looked worried.

“Hey,” he said, still a little harshly, then tried again much gentler, “hey, hey. Come on, George, breathe. It’s okay.”

George heaved in a deep breath, held it in his lungs, tried to think about where the air was going, thinking about his lungs expanding and deflating, expanding and deflating.

“It’s not,” he managed to choke out, because Clay didn’t understand, George was dangerous now, George was a witch now, everything was different now-

Clay crushed him to his chest, arms settling awkwardly around George’s pack. It was slightly suffocating, and George tried to tell himself it wasn’t helpful, because he was dangerous now, and everything was wrong, and-

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Clay said, quietly but firmly. “We’re friends. You love me. You’re not going to hurt me.”

George wondered how much of that he’d said out loud.

“I don’t want to,” he said, words muffled by the coat, “I never wanted to…”

“I know,” Clay said, arms tightening, pressing George’s face even more firmly into the fabric of his coat. “I know.”

When more tears leaked out, George let them. He was sobbing suddenly, loudly and raggedly, into the damp humid space between them. Clay perched his chin over George’s head and let him cry.

He wasn’t entirely certain what it was he was mourning. The Gentleman, maybe. His past. His future. Himself. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure it mattered either. A dam had burst somewhere deep, and he just had to ride it out.

He had no idea how long they stood like that, Clay rocking them gently side to side every now and again. By the time he surfaced, slowly pulling back from Clay’s crushing grip, it was getting dark.

He didn’t really feel much better.

He kind of just felt tired.

He looked up at Clay, offering a thin and not particularly reassuring smile. Clay offered one back.

“Come on,” he said, and tugged them both across the street, sitting George against the ruined walls of someone’s home. George shrugged off the pack and sat down heavily on the cold earth. Clay sat next to him, close enough to reach an arm out and tug George into his side. Ordinarily, George would protest the manhandling but he didn’t have the energy to argue.

They sat in silence for a few long moments.

“Sorry,” Clay said eventually, “for yelling.” George shrugged.

“Sorry for yelling back.”

“It’s fine.”

There were a few more moments of silence.

“Why do you want to go?” Clay asked carefully, clearly cautiously picking his words. George sighed, closed his eyes.

“It’s not that I _want_ to go…” he said, “I just. It’s safer if I do.”

“Okay…” Clay said slowly. “Why?”

“I’m like, a witch now, technically,” he said, and saying it out loud kind of made him want to cry again, but at this point he’d spent most of the day crying and wasn’t sure he had it in him. “When I swore the cleric oath, there was this whole thing about not hurting people. I couldn’t hurt them, no matter what. When I…when I poisoned the gentleman, I broke that oath.”

“So why does that make you dangerous?” Clay asked softly. George pulled his knees up against his chest and opened his eyes, looking up at Clay. His face was suspiciously wet. George didn’t comment on it, but it made his chest hurt.

“’Cause now there’s nothing stopping me from just…doing it again, whenever I want,” he said helplessly. “I might like, wake up one day and decide to hurt you.”

Clay pursed his lips, looking up at the fading sky.

“When…” he started carefully, “When we started travelling together, were you ever worried that I’d kill you?”

George thought for a few moments, then shook his head.

“No?”

“Right,” Clay said, head still tilted back, “but George, I’m _way_ more dangerous than you.”

George snorted, and Clay looked down, face painfully earnest.

“Seriously. I’ve killed _way_ more people than you, I know _way_ more ways that don’t like, need me to have a bunch of gross eyes or frogs or whatever. I-“ he cleared his throat, “I’ve killed my _friends_ , George.”

“That-“

“I know,” he said placatingly, and rubbed a hand up and down George’s arm, “It wasn’t like, fun, or whatever. I didn’t want to do it. But that’s kind of my point. I could kill you like, really easily if I wanted to.”

“But you wouldn’t,” George said.

“Right,” Clay said, encouragingly, “I’d _never_. Because I don’t _want_ to hurt you. Because you’re my friend, and I care about you a lot.”

In spite of the chill, George felt his face flush. Clay took a deep breath, pausing, choosing the right words.

“The reason you’re not…like…dangerous to _me,_ is because you’d never _want_ to hurt me either,” Clay said.

George thought about it.

“I don’t think you ever like, _wanted_ to hurt anyone,” Clay pressed gently. George shook his head.

“No,” he rasped out, “but I don’t…I can’t be sure that won’t change.” 

“Then deal with it if it changes,” Clay said, like it was that easy.

“I don’t…” George started, and then trailed off.

They sat quietly for several long moments.

“You’re not a monster, George,” Clay said, drawing him in even closer, “You’re a victim. Like you said, we both are.”

George let out a heavy sigh, and squeezed his eyes shut again.

The sun had set in earnest whilst they sat there, the cold settling deep in his bones.

“It’s getting late,” Clay said, like he wasn’t sure. “If you, like, really need to go, can’t you like…go tomorrow?”

Nick had said not to draw it out. The best thing to do would be to leave quickly and suddenly, like yanking an arrow out, or setting a dislocated shoulder.

But it had been a long, awful week. The prospect of wandering through darkened forests until he found somewhere to stay didn’t seem particularly appealing. And it was getting cold, a sudden cold snap rolling its way through Windhallow.

George nodded, and pretended not to notice the relieved slump of Clay’s shoulders. He got to his feet and offered George a hand up, which he gratefully accepted. Clay slung an arm around George’s shoulders and led him back into the cleric’s, past the corpse, into the back room.

Nick was sitting exactly where George had left him, and George braced himself for whatever Nick had to say. Even in the dying light of the day, George could see that he’d been crying.

_God,_ he thought, _we need to get it together._

Clay’s arm around his shoulders was warm and comforting.

Nick cleared his throat. “Wanna…” he asked, his voice hoarse and rough, “you guys wanna play cards?”

George nodded, snorted an exhausted laugh. “Yeah.”

Clay slipped away to the packs and George sat on the bed, unlacing his boots and throwing them into the corner of the room. He heard Clay light a torch and settle it into one of the brackets in the wall. Light flooded the room, welcoming and bright, if not proving particularly warm.

George snorted, realising something, and turned himself so he was sitting on the bed facing Nick, cross-legged. He turned to Clay, who was attempting to toe his boots off with little success, weathered pack of cards in one hand.

“We never put out the fire,” George said, “Mrs. Helen’s old house is probably like…” he trailed off.

“It’s not like she’s gonna care,” Nick said, taking the cards and shuffling them. “Even if she was still living there, I bet she wouldn’t notice if the whole place caught fire.”

It wasn’t particularly funny – a meanspirited joke about a dead woman. George laughed anyway. Nick gave him a tiny but genuine smile.

“Stop picking on an old lady and deal the cards,” Clay said, finally getting his boots off. He turned and flumped across the bed, lying on his stomach, propping himself on his hands.

George didn’t think it was a particularly effective way to play, but he didn’t comment on it.

A few rounds later, when Clay had shifted so he had one elbow resting against Nick’s shin, and one against George’s knee, he didn’t comment on it either.

Nick started sagging after the fourth round, eyes getting heavy, wincing slightly. Right.

George grabbed him a healing potion from his pack, trying to be as clear as he could that it was one of the old ones, stuff that hadn’t been touched by what he’d done today.

Nick and Clay were having a mild argument about whether Nick was cheating or not. They didn’t seem to care. George rolled his eyes and handed Nick the potion, and he paused to sniff it before drinking.

It hurt a little, but it was also reassuring that Nick wasn’t going to just let George poison him, if it came to it.

“Ugh,” Nick said, making it about halfway through the potion, “I hate melon.”

“Well, get used to it,” George sighed, returning to his spot, “It’s like, the only thing you’re gonna eat for the next few days.”

“ _George_ ,” Nick whined, “you can’t _do_ that to me.”

“Well,” George said, and trailed off. He couldn’t, technically, do that to him anymore. He didn’t, technically, have that authority.

“I’m tired,” Clay said, chucking his cards onto the bed and stretching out obnoxiously.

“Yeah,” George said, grateful for the exit from the conversation, “yeah. Uh…”

“The bed’s big enough for the three of us,” Clay said, standing and shedding his coat. George furrowed his eyebrows.

“Is it?” he asked dubiously.

“He just wants an excuse to cuddle up with me,” Nick said, a teasing slant to his glare. Clay punched him lightly on the shin.

“I want an excuse to sleep in a real bed for the first time in like, ten days.”

“Soft city boy can’t handle sleeping on the ground,” Nick grumbled, but started shifting over slightly to make space for him.

“I slept on the ground for like, eight months!” Clay said defensively, tossing the coat on top of the piles of blankets, “I just don’t want to do it again!”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that. We both know you just wanna snuggle.”

“What? You don’t want to get snuggled?”

“I _never_ said I didn’t wanna get snuggled-“

“Then shut up and get snuggled.”

George laughed, taking the now empty glass bottle from Nick and setting it back in amongst their packs.

“Do you guys want some privacy or something?” George joked.

“What? No, you’re getting snuggled too,” Clay said. George laughed and rolled his eyes, turning back towards them, where Clay was already getting himself comfortable under the covers.

“There’s no _way_ there’s enough space,” George said, crossing his arms, “I’m not going fit.”

“You’ll fit,” Clay said with absolute certainty. George came back around to look at the gap.

“I’m not going to fit!”

“You’ll fit!” Clay said, laughing a little. He wrapped a hand around George’s sleeve and tugged, “come on, I’ll _prove_ it.”

“No!” George laughed.

“Come on, George, where else are you gonna sleep?” Nick asked, “all your bedding and stuff is on the bed.”

“I can sleep on the floor-“ George tried, but was cut off by the two of them whining protests.

“But it’s _cold_ on the floor-“

“Just get in the bed, George, stop being-“

“You’ll _freeze_ to _death_ -“

“So weird about it-“

“ _Gogy-“_ Nick whined. 

  
“ _Sapnap-“_

“George come on,” Clay said, giving him a pleading look, “please?”

George was about to roll his eyes and pull away, but there was something in Clay’s eyes that told him he shouldn’t. That it was about more than just huddling for warmth or proving a point.

And it wasn’t like he really wanted to sleep on the ground anyway.

“Fine,” George sighed, and Clay and Nick both cheered “just don’t blame me if I like, kick one of you off the bed in my sleep.”

George shrugged out of his coat and awkwardly climbed in the space Clay had made, in between him and Nick. Nick winced a couple of times with the movement and undulation of the mattress, but waved away George’s concern.

He settled down on his back, pressed close between them. It was a tight fit, and it wasn’t especially comfortable, but it was warm and it was kind of nice to be so close.

He felt Clay shift and roll, reaching an arm across George’s chest and resting it against Nick’s arm. The heavy weight was settling, something unbearably earnest about it. George put one hand on Clay’s arm, rubbing little circles into his bicep. Clay let out a long, satisfied sigh and settled a little closer.

He stank. They had been walking for days, and hadn’t had the time to wash, really. He stank of sweat and body-odour and mud.

It was weirdly grounding, George thought. A reminder of where he was. He was somewhere warm and dry with his friends, and maybe for now that was all that mattered.

He reached out for Nick’s hand to the other side of him, and they gently curled their fingers together.

_Yeah_ , he thought as he drifted into a dreamless sleep, _maybe that’s all that matters._

* * *

* * *

The air was still thick with tension, in spite of his best efforts, and Techno told himself it didn’t matter. His job was to get them to the rendezvous point on the north shore of the lake, meet up with the others, and press on from there. He didn’t need these two teenagers to _like_ him.

It was fine.

The ground crunched quietly under their boots, the morning frost already thawing. It would be spring soon enough. The days would lengthen and crops grow. Shedding season was right around the corner – the bane of every stableboy’s existence. Hair everywhere, the constant soundscape of grindstone against sheers, hours spent hunched over a horse’s coat. Not long after that foaling season would begin, knock-kneed little streaks of trouble tottering around the fields, planes, deserts of the world.

In a different life he’d be watching them totter from the warped window of his bedroom above the stables.

He glanced behind him at his own pair of knock-kneed troublemakers.

Tubbo had said they were even a few days ago. Techno wasn’t sure if he agreed. Tubbo had caught him slipping, nearly had his arm broken because of it.

That was no way for a leader to be, probably. Techno still wasn’t quite sure if it was the threat of injury or the lack of follow-through that that was niggling at the back of his head.

They’d talked about it. It hadn’t really made things much better. Tommy was still sulking. Tubbo was still walking on eggshells around him. The itch of tiredness still lurked behind Techno’s eyes.

He was sleeping at night, technically.

They were fine.

They were picking their way through a birch forest, the sunlight streaming through They paused every now and then, listening to the shuffling in the shadows of the forest.

Something was moving, but it could have been anything. Fox, wolf, badger, spider, wilding, hunter. If Sapnap was here he’d probably be able to tell the size and nature of the thing moving in the shadows. He’d know if it was worth worrying over, what to do about it.

As it was, they had guesswork. It came and went in waves – not following them, not stalking them at least. Probably.

The sun set, eventually, and they bedded down for the night. It was cold, a sudden cold snap running through the country. They’d shivered in their freezing bedrolls for several painful minutes before Techno had ceded and lit a small, warm fire. They were huddled around it, probably dangerously close, but it was freezing, and they didn’t care. Techno sat on a fallen log, holding his fingers close to the fire.

“We should tell ghost stories,” Tommy muttered. Techno thought about the last time they’d done that.

“You should go to sleep,” Techno had grumbled back. Tommy scowled and rolled over, Tubbo burrowing deep into the blankets, and within minutes they had fallen asleep.

He glanced up and saw dark shapes moving in the sky, circling. Vultures, he thought, or maybe eagles, or falcons. Something he was hallucinating, his eyes adjusting to the shadows after too long staring into the fire.

He watched them, though, all through his shift, and all night lying wide awake on his back in his bedroll.

* * *

The next day passed strangely. He thought he was keeping it together pretty well until the evening, when they were settling down for the night. It was going to be cold again, and he’d sent the other two off to find firewood.

He sat himself down on a stump and waited, listening to them move through the forest, keeping an ear out for whatever was following them. He propped his head up on his elbow, staring off into middle distance, listening to the vague cadence of their voices in the forest. It was cold but he was rugged up against it in thick cloaks and huddled against a windbreaking tree.

He didn’t realise until he was jerking awake suddenly, heart hammering away in his chest that he’d slumped forwards, dozing without his notice. He shot back upright, blinking owlishly through his disorientation. He glanced to the side, where Tommy and Tubbo were stood, arms full of sticks.

“Are you having…” Tubbo started, and then stopped abruptly.

“You’re not sleeping,” Tommy said, much more accusingly.

“I’m sleeping,” Techno said wearily, rubbing his eyes. He heard Tommy stalk towards him and throw his armful of firewood onto the ground. It clattered loudly as it landed in a heap.

“Not enough, _obviously_ ,” he spat, “I thought we’d agreed, you’ve gotta sleep so that you don’t accidentally murder us.”

“I’m not gonna accidentally murder you,” Techno snorted back, letting his hands fall into his lap. Tommy’s eyes were blazing with anger.   
  


“ _Really_ ,” he asked, bristling, “why don’t we ask Tubbo, then, and his nearly broken arm?”

Another day, Techno would have lost his temper. He was the leader, the ruler. He wasn’t going to be pushed around by two teenagers having a tantrum. He’d have put Tommy back in his place, back in line.

As it was, he was too tired to even entertain the idea.

“Cut it out,” Techno said, rolling his eyes, “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“You…you should have it with someone, though?” Tubbo said hesitantly. Techno turned to him, tamping down on the betrayed feeling. Tubbo was looking a little nervous, arms still full of firewood. His voice was steady. “I only mean that like…something’s clearly up? And talking about it might help?”

“I don’t get why you even bothered bringing us along if you won’t trust us with _anything_ ,” Tommy said, kneeling and arranging the firewood into an appropriate pile. Techno rolled his eyes skywards, where the three shapes were circling again. He watched them move in their slow, methodical way.

“I uh…I think what Tommy means is that we want to help, however we can,” Tubbo was saying, walking a little closer. “Even if you…uh…”

“What are you _looking_ at?” Tommy said sharply, standing up. Techno looked down at him, and back up at the sky, where the shapes were still circling.

That wasn’t good.

“The…” he said, pointing upwards. Tommy looked up as well, eyes widening.

Techno glanced up, seeing one of the shapes diving down towards the earth.

He grabbed Tommy by the shoulders and shoved him harshly aside, sending him clattering into the still-unlit campfire. He barely had enough time to twist out of the way of it as it swooped past him, wide dark wings slicing through his armour and drawing blood that he barely felt. It soared back up above the trees.

“What _is_ that?” Tommy was yelling.

“Phantom!” Tubbo cried back, and that was all they had time for before the other two were plummeting towards the ground.

Techno drew his sword and swung erratically at the creatures, with their sharp wings and glowing green eyes. He just barely managed to duck out of the way of one when Tommy appeared in his periphery, too close for comfort. He held a hand out and pushed him back, out of the way of the next phantom as it swooped and narrowly missed them both. Techno rolled behind a tree, the creature getting caught in the branches. Techno lunged upwards, narrowly missing, watchign the thing return to the skies above. He turned to Tommy, Tubbo rifling through his pack, both too exposed, too close, too close-

“Get back,” he barked, “take cover, get-“

“No!” Tommy yelled, sword drawn, glinting in the pale moonlight.

“Tommy, this ain’t a sport-“

“I’m not playing one!” he cried.

“Watch out!” Tubbo yelled, and that was all the warning they had before a crossbow bolt was whizzing through the air, sailing over Techno’s head and tearing through the thin leather of the phantom’s wing. It tumbled to the ground, hissing and growling in a strange, staticky way. Tommy drew his sword and sliced through it, with one fell swoop.

Another one came at him, and Techno was _just_ able to get a good cut at its wing in before being knocked backwards suddenly, his chest bruised, watching the remaining dark shape fly back up into the night.

He told himself to get up, that he couldn’t lie here or he’d die, but he felt clumsy and uncoordinated, he couldn’t get his arms to cooperate, to get his legs under him-

Before he knew it another one was diving down towards them, towards _him_ , and he couldn’t think, couldn’t move-

A crossbow bolt came out of nowhere, piercing the creature right through its middle. It fell dramatically off to the side of him, one sharp edge of the wing slapping and bruising him ineffectively. Techno just managed to roll away from it when Tommy appeared and finished the job, stabbing the blade right down into the heart of the creature.

The night was quiet, apart from their heavy breathing. He saw Tommy offer him a hand in his peripheral vision and ignored it, pushing himself into a sitting position and hissing at the sharp pain in his arm.

It was hard to see in the dim moonlight, but the cut was wide and fairly deep. Not the end of the world. They had bandages, and healing potions. They’d planned for this.

He pushed himself up to his feet, ignoring the looks the other two were giving him, and made his way over to his pack.

“Techno, oh my-“ Tubbo started.

“’m fine,” he grumbled back. He flipped the pack open with one hand, rooting around through it, producing a health potion and setting it to one side.

“You should let us-“ Tommy said

“I’m fine,” he said, louder, a little more clearly. Maybe they hadn’t heard him. Maybe his exhaustion had him slurring his words.

“You’re not!” he cried, and Techno resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I know, but I’ve got it,” he said. He unbuckled the leather armguard with some difficulty, rolling the sleeve up so he had access to the cut. He fumbled with the roll of gauze, just catching it before it unravelled, and started wrapping it around the wound. He tried to remember what George had told him, tight but not too tight, flexing every so often to check.

“Are you sure you don’t want-“ Tubbo said, and Techno turned to fix him with a withering look. Maybe it was losing its efficacy, because Tubbo didn’t look particularly bothered by it. His expression was pinched and anxious, but Techno suspected it was more about the blood now dripping onto the ground underneath him. Tommy was standing behind him, face thunderous.

“I’ve got it, I said,” he said, and turned his attention back to the injury.

“You never let us _help,_ ” Tommy said, and he didn’t even seem particularly mad anymore, just sad, just crushingly sad. “Why don’t you let us _help?_ You can’t do it all on your own.”

Techno paused in the wrapping of gauze around his arm. _That’s a damn shame,_ he thought, _that’s a damn shame._

* * *

They set up a fire and huddled around it. The three of them were being maybe uncharacteristically quiet, usually at least Tommy and Tubbo would be chattering to each other whilst Techno sharpened his sword.

He’d tried to, but his arm had twinged in protest. He was sitting sullenly instead, staring into the embers of the fire, watching them glow and twist.

Tommy, apparently out of boredom, had stuck a torn scrap of the phantom’s wing on the end of a stick and was watching it burn in the fire. It let out an oddly pleasant smell, and Techno didn’t have the energy to stop him anyway.

“I still don’t get what these things are,” he grumbled.

“It’s a phantom,” Tubbo replied, absently tearing up grass and throwing it into the fire. Tommy rolled his eyes.

“You said,” he said, “I still don’t know what that _means_. Tubbo shrugged. There were a few moments of silence.

“The story goes like this,” Techno said eventually, his voice low and hoarse. He felt the other two turn towards him.

“Far, far away, there’s a whole nation of different people. Back long ago, folks thought they came from the end of the world, so they called ‘em-“

“Endermen, yeah, everyone knows _that_ ,” Tommy said impatiently. It was the good kind of impatient though, the kind that meant he was eager for a ghost story. “That doesn’t explain-“

“I’m gettin’ to it,” Techno said, rolling his eyes, “If you’d stop interruptin’. Anyway, these far-away-lands that they came from followed different rules about gravity n’stuff. If you go far enough into the farlands, all that’s left are these big floatin’ islands made of pale stone, above a huge empty void.”

Techno glanced up at the other two, clearly entrapped. He couldn’t blame them. It was a good story.

“Anyway, things that live there gotta be able to fly, or teleport, and so you get two different kinds of things. You get the Endermen, and you get phantoms. Endermen eat fruit, but _phantoms_ ,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “ _Phantoms_ drink _blood._ ”

He paused for effect.

“Problem is, Endermen don’t have much blood, or so I’m told. So phantoms started goin’ out further and further lookin’ for things. They’re kinda delicate though, so they only go after creatures that aren’t gonna put up much of a fight. Sick ones. Old ones.” He pushed down the shame, the embarrassment, “tired ones. They’ll find something who hasn’t been sleepin’, or is at the end of their rope, who’s wanderin’ around late at night, and then, right when the time is right…” he trailed off, gesturing to the already deflating corpses.

Tommy and Tubbo were listening with total entrapment.

“Well,” he said, leaning back, “that’s the story my Dad told, anyway. I think he was probably just tryn’ to get me to shut up and go to bed.”

There were a few beats of silence.

“It’s a good story,” Tommy said, a small smirk creeping its way onto his face, “but it’s not as good as Ghostbur.”

“Huh?” Techno said, deeply offended, “Ghostbur isn’t even real!” He gestured to the corpses again.

“Which is what makes it a _ghost_ story,” Tommy said, waving a hand dismissively, “what you just said is like…a biology lesson.”

Techno rolled his eyes. “See if I ever tell you a ghost story again, then.”

Tubbo laughed a little, and they settled back into silence.

“So…” Tubbo said hesitantly, “You’ve… been tired?”

_No two ways around it now, was there_ , Techno thought, and nodded. He took a deep breath, eyes fixated on the fire.

“I’ve been…havin’ trouble sleepin, I guess,” he said.

There were a few more long stretches of silence.

“Any reason, or…” Tubbo tried. Techno rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

They weren’t going to let up any time soon. And maybe it was better to give them an explanation, so they weren’t thinking about him and his behaviour instead of thinking about staying alive. It was good leadership. It wasn’t showing _weakness_ , it was…leading. Or something.

“Just…get too caught up in my head,” he grumbled, maybe too quiet to hear, but if he was neither of the other two took him to task on it. “I think I’m just…really lookin’ forward to seein’ the others again.”

There was another long silence. He hoped he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

It was being a good leader, but every moment he had to talk about his _feelings_ was agony.

“Well,” Tommy said, “It’s only like, another four days ‘til we get there, right?”

“Yeah!” Tubbo said, encouragingly, “and we’ll have some cool stories to tell them! Like the spiders, and the phantoms –“

“I bet _Sapnap_ never killed a phantom,” Tommy said smugly.

Techno heaved a sigh, and looked up at the two of them, their ruddy faces lit red by the glow of the fire.

Listening to them talk, it became easy to believe that they’d get there in one piece, that all of them would get there in one piece.

Maybe they would.

“Yeah,” Techno said, sighing, “you can tell him all about it once we’re there.”

He took his watch that night unbothered by shapes in the sky, and when it was Tommy’s turn for watch, he only tossed and turned for an hour before sleep came.

It was progress.

He’d take it.

* * *

* * *

_He was descending the stairs and whistling about four bars of some folk song Mrs. Novak used to hum, and he was swinging the jail key around the index finger of his right hand._

_He was descending the stairs and whistling and stopping in his tracks because in spite of the way the rags hung on his emaciated frame, that was Darryl, that was unmistakably Darryl, and he looked up at him with sad and hunted eyes._

_“Zak?” he asked, hoarsely._

“Zak,” Darryl said, much clearer. Zak’s eyes snapped open.

It was dark and cold, and there was a gentle breeze blowing over his slightly sweaty face. Outside. Camping. On a mission.

He glanced up, where Darryl was peering down at him nervously. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

Zak let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Darryl said, and settled back to look up at the stars. He wordlessly offered Zak a hand, which he graciously accepted as he rolled over to try and get more sleep before the sun rose.

His dad always told him that the body couldn’t remember pain, that it had evolved not to. That was probably bullshit. He’d never be able to forget the stab of guilt that went through his heart, nor the burning rage, rage, rage that simmered low in his stomach for the next six years. He’d never be allowed to, because every night as he dreamed it happened again, the wounds reopened.

Or at least, one of them.

The rage had never quite abated.

They’d need twenty-five pounds of explosives to quench it. They had twnty-three. Two more to go.

He fell back asleep with equations circling in his mind.

* * *

They got to their feet the next morning, or at least, they tried.

Darryl got up with no trouble. The moment Zak tried to put weight on his injured leg he nearly collapsed straight back down, having to steady himself against Darryl’s shoulder before he fell face-first into the ground.

Darryl was giving him that face. The one where his eyes went hard and he developed a little frown in-between his eyebrows. The kind where Zak knew exactly what he was about to say before he even opened his mouth.

“Z-“

“It’s fine, I’d rather keep moving, I’ll feel better once I get blood flowing to it,” he said, straightening himself up and attempting to stretch out the muscle. Maybe it was a cramp.

“B-“

“It’s not broken, and at this point the best we can do is get George to look at it,” he insisted, trying to sound cajoling. “It doesn’t hurt _that_ bad, anyway.”

That was the wrong thing to say. He watched as the frown between Darryl’s eyebrows deepened, felt like he was watching him physically dig his heels in.

“That’s not the _point_ ,” he said, and he was taking on that _tone_ , that _tone_ his mother always took with them, no matter how old either of them got. Zak did his best not to be annoyed by it.

“What is the _point_ , then?”

“The _point_ is that it _hurts_ at all!” he said, and started worrying his bottom lip.

_He’s worried because he cares_ , he reminded himself. He tried to keep his tone calm and even, but even he could hear it was a little strained.

“Well if it doesn’t _bother_ me, it doesn’t _matter_ ,” he said, and felt bad for sounding so harsh.

He thought he probably had a right to be a little terse though, to be fair. He’d done…something…to his leg, and it was making walking and standing and sitting and lying down a little taxing.

And given the sleep he’d been having, yeah, maybe he was within his rights to be a little short. _Slightly_ irritable.

Darryl looked like he was going to let the matter drop, for two glorious seconds, but then-

“Maybe you should sit,” he said, and made to manhandle Zak into a sitting position. He skirted back, nearly losing balance on his bad leg. Darryl grabbed at him, steadying him, going to put a hand on his shoulder-

“Darryl,” he said sternly. It made Darryl stop at the very least. “Don’t…muffin-ing baby me.”

Darryl was still giving him a strange look, like he was about to insist in that awful _condescending_ way of his-

“Please,” he said, “we’re running out of time.” Darryl frowned a little more, and opened his mouth to say something, but-

“You don’t want Dan to worry, do you?”

It was a low blow.

“That was a low blow,” Darryl said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. There was half a moment of tense silence before he crumpled slightly, deflating.

“Fine,” he muttered, “fine.”

He let his hands fall from Darryl’s shoulders. Darryl gave him a reassuring pat.

“I’ll let you know if I need a break, okay?” he said, “come on, dude, trust me.”

It was a loaded ask. He knew. There wasn’t really a way out for Darryl other than just letting Zak have his way. He either had to tell Zak, to his face, that he wasn’t trustworthy, or he had to cede. He knew Darryl knew all that too. Darryl gave him a small smile anyway and nodded in acquiescence. Zak grinned and bent down to scoop up his pack.

“Come on, Bad! Chop chop! The Mad King isn’t gonna blow himself up any time soon!” he chirped, and did his best to jaunt up the relatively gentle slope of the hill.

“Yeah,” he heard Darryl sigh, “right. Yeah.”

He decided not to read too hard into that.

* * *

They had an easy going of it, at first, the slope gentle and the morning dry. Sometime in the early evening it started to rain – big fat drops that turned the ground into mud.

It was getting steeper as well, Mt. Autumnmaw looming high above them, having to crane their necks to see the top now. The foothills were getting steeper, and the going harder, and with herculean effort Zak swallowed his pride and said they needed to rest.

They found a small rocky alcove to crouch behind, sheltered slightly from the driving rain and wind. They huddled close together, their one waterproofed layer held above their heads, shivering in the cold.

His leg was in agony, but he wasn’t going to tell anyone that much. It’d only turn into another argument about whatever, and he didn’t have it in him.

He loved Darryl, he’d do just about anything for him. He _had_ done just about anything for him. But sometimes all he wanted was half a minute of-

Somewhere, in the driving rain and howling wind, there were footsteps. He glanced over at Darryl, who was midway through attempting to wipe the rain off his glasses, to check if he’d been imagining things.

Darryl had gone pale, eyes wide, hands frozen where he was cleaning his glasses. He’d heard it too. Someone was out there.

They ducked down further against the rocky outcrop, listening. Darryl was hardly daring to breathe, Zak noticed, his body tense and ready to…

To what? What were they going to do? They were pinned against a rocky cliff face, Depending on how many there were, they’d be overwhelmed.

They were close to the capital now. Maybe two days’ walk from where they were meeting Dan. It made sense that there would be more patrols of manhunters now. Zak wasn’t sure how many of them there’d be- maybe they’d get lucky and find a lone one sent on a hunt, maybe they’d bumped into a patrol and there’d be three or four. He wasn’t willing to take that chance.

They should move. And yet.

The footsteps squelched closer, gruff voices complaining about the cold. He only heard two of them. He didn’t like their chances against two of them. They should move.

And yet.

The low, smoking burn of rage roiled in his gut. He felt it rise, creep its way up into the back of his throat. The old anger, burning hot, flaring up in spite of the cold, burning, burning.

The footsteps got closer, squishing through the mud and loose stones. Some joke or other, muttered too quietly to be heard, but the low rumble of laughter carried over the hills.

He hated them, blindingly, all-consumingly – these stupid awful hunters who roamed the hills looking for people to hurt, people to kill. The world would be better without them. He pictured them then, the nameless faceless hunters who were making his life a misery, who’d made _Darryl’s_ life a misery. All the hunters, the guards, the servants, everybody in that castle who’d helped the Mad King.

He hadn’t noticed he was levering himself to his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword, until Darryl slapped an arm around his elbow. He looked down, at the confused panic on Darryl’s face.

“What are you _doing?”_ he hissed.

“What does it _look like_?” Zak whispered back, “I’ve gotta get rid of them before they find us.”

“ _What?!_ Zak, are you _crazy?_ ”

“Shh, they’ll-“

“What was that?” a voice asked.

They froze. Zak felt blood rushing in his ears.

“What was what?”

“That _noise_ , didn’t you-“

“What _noise_ , come on Calico.”

“I _heard_ something!”

“It’s raining, it was probably just _rain_ ,” the voice sounded whiny, high pitched, annoying, hateable. It did nothing to quell the rage, rage, rage.

“ _Calico,_ come on, it’s _fucking freezing_. Let’s just go. I’m cold.”

Zak’s grip tightened on his sword. _Come closer. Give me a reason. Come closer._

“Yeah, alright,” the first person sighed. “Probably just imagined it, whatever it was.”

He heard the footsteps start away, fading into the distance, and tried to ignore the frustrated burning hatred that still stirred in him. Pushed down the urge to chase them back, to find the chinks in their armour and exploit them. To make them pay for what he’d-

For what they’d done.

He tried to ignore it.

Darryl was giving him a weird, disappointed, sad, confused, concerned look. He tried to ignore that as well.

* * *

* * *

He woke up suddenly, like he always did, and Clay took some time to assess the situation.

Nothing loud, nothing banging, no footsteps, no hand on the nape of his neck, no cold water splashed on his face. He wasn’t too warm, or too cold, or in pain-

Something shifted under him.

Right. Windhallow. The Gentleman. Nick. George.

He figured he’d probably rolled over onto George sometime during the night, and was pressing his face awkwardly into his shoulder. Geoge was trying to shift and get comfortable, or something, but was too effectively pinned under him to much but shift awkwardly.

Maybe if he kept his eyes shut the day wouldn’t come. Maybe if he kept his eyes shut, he could go back to sleep. Keep lying here, weighing George down, and then he wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t be _able_ to leave. A devious plan. Flawless.

He felt George stir again, grumbling in his sleep.

He knew he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t _want_ to. George was an adult. His own person. He could do whatever he liked. And he had to respect that, he thought, that’s what being a good friend was.

Maybe he could change George’s mind. Maybe he could whine pathetically at him until George took pity and stuck around.

He felt George wake up, take a deep breath and startle at the lump weighing him down. He felt a hand settle on his shoulder, hesitantly, and for several long seconds Clay wasn’t sure if George was about to push him away or pull him closer.

He tried to keep his breathing even and slow.

George slowly stretched his hand up across his shoulder to settle warmly on his back. He let out a long, slow sigh.

He wasn’t sure what he would have done if George had shoved him away.

He needed to keep it together. Maybe for now, he could pretend to keep sleeping. Maybe George would let him.

“I know you’re awake,” George said quietly. Clay sighed and propped himself up on an elbow, rolling off George and sitting up.

“What gave it away?” he asked, rubbing his eyes a little.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever fully get used to sleeping without the mask.

“You wake up if like, the wind changes,” George said, rolling his eyes. Clay laughed and pretended it didn’t hurt.

George knew he was a light sleeper. He knew just putting a hand on him would be enough to wake him up. That he was bad at keeping a straight face, which is why he wore a mask, that his dad was dead, that he didn’t like fish. He knew all that because they’d travelled together for half a year, lived with each other for another three months.

Because they were friends.

Because they chose to be friends. They’d stuck together at first because it was what was safest, and they’d stuck together afterwards because they cared enough to.

And now George was leaving.

Clay wasn’t sure he really got it. He’d made a potion he already knew how to make. He wasn’t sure why that made him any more dangerous than he’d already been. But George had been upset about it, so it mattered.

So he had to go.

George was watching him, he noticed suddenly, looking up at him with a wide, open expression.

He should crack a joke, maybe. He opened his mouth to, and said “I don’t want you to leave,” instead.

Clay wasn’t good at reading people, but he didn’t have to be to know he’d fucked up as soon as George’s face crumpled.

_Fuck_.

It was too early for this.

“Clay…” he started. Clay screwed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand down his face, turning down towards the bed.

“I _know_ , I’m sorry, I know.”

“No, I…” there was a heavy pause, “I don’t _want_ to leave either.”

Clay peaked one eye out at him. George was lying there, deep frown on his face. They glanced at each other.

It should have been easy, then _. We don’t want you to go. You don’t want to go. So stay._

“But you…have to,” he said hesitantly. George sighed.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long silence, interrupted only by the slightly wheezy snoring of Nick off to the left.

He glanced down at George. _Inflammation around the target’s sinuses, red colouration under the target’s eyes, stiffening of the target’s jaw; target emotionally compromised_.

All the time they’d spent together and this was how it was going to end. Tears. Regret. Nick laid up with a not-severed-anymore ear and George wandering off on his own. It was miserable. It hadn’t been miserable.

_They_ hadn’t been miserable.

He cast around for something, _anything_ to say that would stop George crying.

“Remember that time with the snow,” he blurted out, “the snowballs?”

George gave him a confused look. “You mean the time you knocked me out of a tree?”

He laughed nervously. “You shoved snow down my shirt!”

“Only _after_ you knocked me out of a tree!”

“You threw the first snowball, anyway.”

“I didn’t!”

“Yeah you did, you just missed-“

“ _You_ threw the first snowball, you _dick_ -“

Nick snored and stirred slightly. They both glanced over at him, watched him settle back into sleep seemingly undisturbed, and dissolved into giggles.

“Good times,” George said, dryly sarcastic.

“Yeah,” Clay replied, and it was probably too earnest given what George had said, “they were.”

George gave him a smile, small but real, and they lapsed into silence again, listening to Nick snoring loudly, wheezily.

He didn’t want to bring it up, but.

“You…can you talk to Nick before you leave?” he asked, trying not to sound too desperate, “please?”

George nodded, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

“Just…” he said, trying to bring some levity back, “he’ll be all mopey if you don’t, and _I’ll_ be stuck with him being grumpy or whatever forever.”

George snorted a laugh.

“Sure,” he said quietly, “I’ll talk to him.”

“I can, like, give you guys some privacy, if you want?” he offered, “like, go for a walk for a couple hours or whatever.”

“Is that like, safe?” George asked hesitantly, “like, wandering off on your own?”

Clay laughed a little, looking down at the honest expression on his face, trying not to feel too warm at the sentiment.

“It’s like you forget I was a _manhunter_ for like, ten years, dude,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, standing and stretching out his back. Some of the persistent aches and pains that he carried with him after all the time sleeping on the ground had started to fade a little. He glanced back down at George who was still watching him with a worried expression.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, attempting a comforting smile. George nodded hesitantly.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay.” Clay strapped himself into his boots and grabbed his coat off the assortment of blankets on the bed.

George was sitting against the wall, looking lost.

Clay took a deep breath and tried not to think about it. He put a steady hand on George’s shoulder, hoping it conveyed a fraction of what he was trying to.

George absently put his hand on his forearm, fingers curling over the raised brand of the Mad King.

_I love you. I love you too._

He patted his shoulder a couple of times and turned to go, grabbing his mask and slipping it over his face.

“Be back in a bit,” he said, and made his way out of the room.

In the crumbling remains of the tower, the body of the Gentleman was still lying in a heap, covered in his own bloody vomit, eyes still gruesomely wide open.

He tried his hardest to remember who he’d been, where he’d seen his face. He had the kind that was easy to forget, which was kind of ideal for a manhunter. He’d heard the name at least, the Gentleman who sauntered into villages and out with ill-gotten information. A bastard, by all accounts.

He’d rot here in the open air, face forgotten, name long since lost. It was what he deserved, the sadist.

Clay stood for a long time, thinking about it. What made the Gentleman, or Fish, or Xilo any different from Pandarius? From him? They were awful, violent, more than willing to kill and torture to…

To what? To do the Mad King’s bidding. To do what they’d been trained to do since they were old enough to carry a sword.

Victims, all of them, in their own awful way.

And maybe it wasn’t about being deserving. Maybe there were some things you didn’t have to earn.

Clay opened the old, dusty cupboards, rooting around through the rotting bandages and old moth-eaten bedsheets. Soon enough he found what he’d been looking for – a rusty and warped shovel. A shovel nonetheless.

He grabbed the Gentleman around the middle and hoisted him up onto this shoulder, climbing over the support beam out into the pale morning sunlight. He managed to get them around to the other side of the tower, tossing him down.

There was a patch of undisturbed ground, not covered by rubble or stone. The ground was hard, frozen solid, but Clay had never been the kind to be intimidated by a challenge.

He stuck the shovel into the ground and started digging a grave.

* * *

* * *

George sat against the headboard for a long time, waiting for Nick to wake up. He thought it’d give him plenty of time to work out what he was going to say, exactly. Whether he was going to apologise or not. _How_ he was going to apologise.

He knew Clay thought their constant arguing was worth worrying about. Something about how all they did was fight and how they had to talk about stuff because blah blah blah.

He and Nick had always argued. Ever since Nick had been old enough to develop an opinion other than George’s, they’d argued. It never mattered about what; weather, food, folksongs, stories, life. He wondered if it was because there was something really deeply wrong with them, that they fought with each other constantly, unendingly, over absolutely nothing.

Maybe they just liked that they were honest. Maybe it was just how they were. Maybe it didn’t mean anything other than that they’d grown up on the same street and George had liked having someone he could boss around and Nick liked the adventures George would lead them on.

The only issues arose after they met again, in the Domain of the Pig Nosed Lord, and suddenly the arguments seemed like they meant stuff.

Well. Might as well clear the air, as he was leaving. Might as well get it all out in the open.

He should probably apologise for being so difficult, for reacting so aggressively when Nick tried to express concern, even if he had done it in the most absolutely fucking insufferable way possible-

Bad apology.

I’m sorry. Start with just ‘I’m sorry’ and see how it goes from there.

“’M sorry,” Nick, said, groggy, just on the edge of sleep. George turned to see him go to rub at his eyes and then wince as it jostled his broken ribs. George just blinked at him, not comprehending.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, turning and giving George the full force of his big, sad eyes. “I’m sorry I said you were a burden. I’m sorry I said any of that shit, I didn’t even mean it. I just…I dunno. Being back here…”

“Yeah,” George said. He understood. There was a difference between knowing that the whole village had been razed, reduced to rubble and ash, and actually seeing it for yourself.

“And the rest of it,” Nick continued, “I’m sorry for the rest of it too. All the…” he waved a hand on his good side lazily. “Hovering.”

“Thanks,” George said, eyes turned down towards the bedspread.

That seemed like the wrong thing to say.

“Yeah, uh, me too,” George said, and immediately cringed at how bad that sounded. Nick snorted, and George resisted the urge to flick him.

“Shut up,” he whined, rolling his eyes, “I’m _trying_.” 

“Don’t tell me to shut up while you’re _apologising_ to me,” Nick said, laughing a little. George huffed, and crossed his arms.

“Sorry, then, for telling you to shut up,” he said, rolling his eyes, and then remembered.

He was leaving. It was serious. This was his last chance.

“And for being…so…yeah. About the hovering,” he said. “I guess I never thought about like…why you were being like that.”

Nick shrugged with his good shoulder and stared down at the coats and blankets covering the bedspread. He found a loose thread and started to pick at it.

“I don’t really know why either. I guess I just…” he said, and trailed off.

They lapsed into silence for several long minutes.

“That day you came back,” Nick said, out of nowhere, and George just barely managed to stifle the laugh at the way he’d phrased it, “that was like, the best day of my life.”

George glanced up at him. He was still staring down at the blankets, picking at the thread.

“Like… it was like you were back from the dead, or something,” he said, “like I’d been given a second chance. Like, the universe said ‘hey dude, you fucked up last time, try again and don’t fuck up’. So like, you know, after you had stopped bleeding to death, I just kinda thought like, ‘well, I’ve _got_ this second chance, so I’ve gotta be careful this time’, y’know?”

George was horrified to hear the wobble in his voice.

“Like, all I wanted to do was…I don’t fuckin’ know, keep people safe. I was gonna come back and…but…” he scrubbed at his face with his knuckles, and gestured helplessly around them.

Windhallow in ruins. Everyone dead.

“All I do is fuck up,” he said, and his voice was thick with tears, now. “I fucked it up the first time, and then I fucked it up again.” 

“You didn’t…you didn’t fuck it up,” George said, reaching a hand across and settling it on his shoulder, scooting a little closer. “You didn’t fuck it up, either time.”

“I made you hate me,” he said, face still hidden behind his hand, “I left everyone to die and then I made you _hate_ me, and now you’re-”

“I don’t hate you,” George said, scooting a little closer. They were pressed knee to knee now, George wrapping his arm around Nick’s shoulders. Nick tilted his head slightly, just enough to peer out from behind his hands. His eyes were dark grey around the edges, bloodshot and watery.

It was his last chance to fix things.

“I don’t hate you,” he said again, “I just…it felt like you thought I was too dumb to like, live my life, or whatever, without accidentally breaking something.”

“I-“

“I know,” he said, trying to give his shoulder a comforting squeeze, “I just like…I wasn’t being a dick ‘cause I hated you.”

“I left you,” he said, sniffling, “I let you think I was dead for three years.”

“And if you’d stayed, we both would have died.”

Nick sniffled again, and buried his face back in his hands.

“I meant it when I said I wasn’t mad at you,” George said quietly. “There wasn’t anything you could have done that would have changed things. I knew you would’ve come back if you could. Sap, you’re my best friend, my _oldest_ friend. I could never hate you. I’m sorry I made you think I did.”

Nick sniffled again, choking back a sob. George hoped that was a good sign, even if it didn't seem like one.

“I hate it when people see me cry,” he said, his voice muffled. George huffed a sigh, turned his attention back to the blankets.

“I’m not watching,” he said, and then pretended not to hear the sobs Nick wasn’t quite able to stifle. He pretended not to notice when Nick turned to press his face into the side of George’s head either, and kept his eyes firmly on the bedspread in front of them.

He had no idea how long they sat there like that. Eventually, Nick emerged, face damp and eyes bright, but drying. Drying. George offered him a small smile, and Nick gave one back. He reached up a hand and cupped the back of George’s head, affectionately forcing him into a headbutt. It hurt a little, but he didn’t really care.

“We’re good, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’re good,” George responded, letting him go.

“But we can still like, argue, right?”

“Duh,” George said, “I’d think there was something like, seriously wrong with you if you ever stopped.

Nick chuckled, still a little wetly, but chuckled all the same.

“How’s your ear feel?” George asked.

“Lopsided,” he muttered. George’s eyes went wide as he roughly grabbed Nick’s head, tilting it, checking, because he’d tried so hard to make sure it was _even,_ to make sure it wouldn’t look wrong, and Nick’s shoulders were shaking, and he was biting back a grin. George rolled his eyes and thumped him on the arm, trying to supress his own laugher.

“Asshole,” he muttered, sitting back, trying to calm the sudden incessant beating of his heart.

“You already said you could _never_ hate me,” Nick sung teasingly, “it’s too late, George I know you really _love_ me when you say stuff like that.”

“I take it back,” George said, “I hate you. I hate you so, so much. You’re the worst.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments.

“What now?” he asked. _What now, Georgie, what now?_

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m going to make you drink another healing potion, and then teach _Clay_ how to make them, and then…”

“You’re leaving.”

“Yeah,” he said. Weird, how he’d almost forgotten about the whole thing. Oathbreaking, murdering, exile.

“Where?”

George shrugged. “There’s a swamp nearby, I think,” he said, . “That’s like…traditional, or whatever.” Nick wrinkled his nose slightly.

“I don’t want to live in a swamp,” he said.

“Well, you don’t have to,” George said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, I do,” Nick said, completely seriously, “if you’re gonna.”

George froze, turned to him, scowled.

“That’s not funny.”

“Good. I’m not joking.”

“Nick, come on, I have to-“

“Why, though?” George took a deep breath in through the nose. He’d _just_ had this argument with Clay yesterday and it had been bad enough, he didn’t think he had it in him to have it again.

“Because, I might-“

“I won’t live _with_ you, just like, _near_ you. Like, accidentally, or whatever.”

“How does that help?”

“It’s harder to accidentally poison me that way,” he said. George rolled his eyes.

“That’s…what about the Mad King?” George said. Nick scoffed.

“What _about_ the Mad King?”

“Don’t you want to go help blow him up?”

“I guess, but…” Nick paused, looking like he was trying to work something out. Like George was a puzzle to solve.

“I meant what I said, about second chances,” he said, eventually. “All that stuff you said about me being your best friend, and your oldest friend, it goes the same for me. I…I’d miss you, dude. And I can like, not have to miss you if I just come live nearby.”

“Why are you making this difficult?” he asked, despairingly.

“What _about_ it is difficult?”

“I’m _trying_ to do the right thing, Nick, I don’t want to, but-“

“Then why do it? Look, George,” Nick said, twisting just slightly so that he was facing George more front-on, “everything’s different now. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to live alone, you don’t have to totally isolate yourself. There are witches who live in villages, doing all the cleric stuff or whatever.”

George sighed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“But…” he said, “the Mad King.”

“The others can handle it,” he said.

“No, they _can’t_ , they need us-“

“Us?” Nick repeated.

_Damn it._

“I…”

“You want to go kill the Mad King, don’t you? You want to help.”

“Yeah,” he said eventually, “I don’t…I don’t know if I trust myself enough though.”

“Fine,” Nick shrugged, then winced. _Don’t do that,_ he thought, like a cleric. “I trust you more than enough for the both of us.”

“But-“

“George,” Nick said, eyes deadly serious, “I don’t care, okay? I don’t care. You’re my best friend, and wherever it is you’re headed I’m coming with you. And If I’m not coming with you, I’m following behind you.”

He thought back to that night, a lifetime and a day ago, where he and Nick had nearly come to blows about this exact thing. _I’m coming with you, and if I’m not coming with you, I’m following behind you._

“God, that’s annoying,” he grumbled to himself. Nick laughed.

“Yeah, you suck.”

George weighed up the options. On the one hand, go to nearly certain death with his friends, and either die or return to a world rid of tyranny and evil, drink a toast to the new king, live happily ever after, constantly worrying that he might slip up and kill. Live alone in the swamp, dragging Sapnap with him, and sit and wait for death to come for him.

At least in the first case, he was helping people.

Maybe he could have both.

“Fine,” he said, sighing in frustration, in relief. “I’ll…I’ll stay. Just until the Mad King dies, or…”

Or the other option. Or we all fall in the fight.

Nick clearly wasn’t thinking about the second option, because his face broke out into a huge grin, and he dragged George in for another mildly painful side hug, clutching him tightly, crushingly. George let out a breathy wheeze of laughter, barely audible under Nick’s relieved giggling.

It was just then that the clump of boots through the cleric’s alerted them to Clay’s arrival, the both of them looking up to see him nervously peering in. He nudged the mask up into his hair, expression cautious, like he was walking on eggshells.

“You guys seem…cheerful,” he said slowly. Nick shrugged, then winced. George rolled his eyes and got to his feet, making his way over to the packs to search for another healing potion.

“Well,” Nick said, rubbing at his injured ribs slightly, “maybe you just seem depressed.”

George was close enough to Clay that he saw the dirt under his fingernails and winced. Clay just laughed slightly, muttered a ‘fuck off’. He didn’t seem too down, at least. He’d take it. 

He tossed the potion gently to Nick, who caught it with deaf hands. Clay shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

“So uh…” he said, “when are you…going?”

“Two weeks,” Nick said smugly, uncorking the potion and gagging a little. Clay sharply turned to George with wide eyes, an eyebrow raised in question.

George put his hands up, took a deep breath. “Just until we kill the Mad King, then I really have to-hey!”

Whatever he’d been about to say got abruptly cut off when Clay grabbed him around the middle, hoisting him into the air in a crushingly tight grip, spinning, laughing. George grabbed onto the fabric of his coat to keel from tumbling to the ground, admonishing Clay to let him go to absolutely no avail.

He put him down, eventually, face flushed and grinning widely. He toed off his shoes and flopped himself down onto the bed, jostling Nick and eliciting a string of curses. George laughed, sitting down back against the headboard.

“Man,” Nick said, draining the potion, “This place sucks. Why’d we come here?”

“You tell me!” George said, “It was _your_ idea in the first place.”

Clay laughed. “Yeah dude, it seems like your fault.”

“How was I supposed to know that it would suck so bad?” he asked defensively.

“Logic?” George offered.

“Like, common sense?” Clay said.

“Whatever, that shit’s lame anyway,” he said, settling back against the wall.

George and Clay laughed slightly.

“Well,” George said, “you should get comfy, ‘cause we’ve got another day here, at least.”

“No,” Clay whined, “George, _please_ -“

“Dude, it _sucks_ here, I thought we agreed-“

“Yeah, but there’s a bed, and you really should get as much rest as you can,” George said, thumping his hand against the mattress. Nick scoffed.

“You’re not even a cleric anymore, you can’t…” he said, and trailed off, anxiously glancing at George’s expression.

It hurt, but he thought at this point he was too tired to feel anything.

“Too soon?” Nick said. George nodded, and waved a hand dismissively.

“You can pay me back by letting us stay here another day,” George said, and felt a smug sort of self-satisfaction at the silence that met him.

Clay was picking dirt out of his fingernails, presumably for the grave of the man he’d buried. Nick was laid up with broken ribs and a healing ear, and George…

It had been a long week. He couldn’t help but wonder what the others were doing, what kinds of conversations they were having.

“Is it bad that I hope everyone else is also having an awful time?” George asked after a while, and it startled a laugh out of the other two.

“What?” Clay asked, sitting up and fixing him with an incredulous look.

“What?” George said defensively, “What if we get there all like, banged up and sad and whatever, and everyone else is just like… ‘wow! Hey guys! What took you so long?’”

Clay started laughing in the wheezy way he always did.

“Like, we get there, and they’re all like ‘a helpful farmer gave us a lift and these cool matching jackets,’-“ George pressed on, feeling himself grin, “’and 640 emeralds, and we have these nice friendship bracelets, anyway, why do you guys look so sad?’, it’ll be so _awkward_ -’”

Nick laughed, and then coughed a little, and groaned, and did his best to stop laughing.

“Friendship Bracelets?” he choked out.

“Yeah, or whatever,” George laughed, “and we’re just like, miserable and injured, and covered in mud and crying because between here and there something else awful happens-”

“ _George”_ Clay gasped, trying to catch his breath, “don’t- don’t _jinx_ it!“

“Like, we find Mr. Simon’s dog, you remember,” George said, turning to Nick, just barely getting out the line, tamping down on his laughter, “the little white one that ran away, and we’re like ‘wow, nice’, and then it like, _explodes_ -“

He was cut off by Clay and Nick howling in laughter, which kicked him off as well. Nick was coughing, and Clay sounded in pain the same way he always did, and George was wiping tears of laughter off his face in spite of the situation, joyous in spite of everything, in spite of it all. 

* * *

* * *

Techno spread out a map across his lap, a compass at one corner weighing down the curling edges.

“We should be at the RP by this evening,” he said, and it was no small relief.

The rest of them would be there by now, if everything had gone according to plan. Maybe they were worrying about them, wondering what to do now that their fearless leader had fallen or gotten kidnapped or something. They were still well within the three-week window Techno had set. Maybe they wouldn’t be worried. Maybe they’d be singing songs around a campfire. Maybe Skeppy or Sapnap or fuckin’ _George_ had snuck a couple bottle of booze from somewhere, and they were getting drunk without him again.

That day back in Ravengrave felt like years ago, he thought. Maybe because things had gone so drastically differently from how he’d thought they would. Or maybe because the last few weeks had been stressful in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

It was his fault for not anticipating, he figured. If he’d planned for it, he could have made provisions. He could have made plans. An action list of how to deal with two teenagers and their nonsense.

“We should be at the…role play by this evening?” Tubbo asked, genuinely confused, and Tommy broke down in a fit of giggles.

“We should be at the research paper by this evening,” he giggled.

“We should be at the random…pocket by this evening,” Tubbo giggled back, catching onto the game.

“We should be at the rodeo p…party by this evening,” Tommy choked out, and it wasn’t funny but they both laughed about it loudly.

Techno rolled his eyes and rolled up the map, swatting at both of them and trying to pretend they weren’t being endearingly annoying. “Rendezvous point, you tryhards.”

“Awwww,” Tommy moaned, but got himself together anyway, “that’s boring.”

“Sorry that fuckin’ _regicide_ isn’t as scintilatin’ as you’d hoped,” Techno said with absolutely no remorse.

“If Bad was here, he’d make you scrub your mouth out with soap,” Tubbo said, rolling up his bed roll.

“You can tattle on me when we get to the-

“Rat Picnic?”

“ _Rendezvous point_ ,” Techno said trying to bite down his smile with some success. Tubbo and Tommy were giggling to each other again anyway. He stowed the map in his pack and got to his feet, hoisting it up onto his shoulders.

They walked along in relative silence, skirting along the banks of the lake.

The closer they got, the more weird anxiety churned deep in Techno’s gut. He was glad to see his friends again, sure but-

But that was the issue. They weren’t his friends, they couldn’t be. They were his rooks, bishops, knights, whatever. Pieces that he might have to sacrifice. He couldn’t do that if they were his friends.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew it was dangerous.

He knew not all of them would…

Maybe that’s what he was worried about. He’d get there and it would just be more pieces to manage. Tubbo and Tommy had been enough as it was, trying to take responsibility, insisting on offering _advice,_ like he could ask them to make the sorts of calls he had to make. Like he could ask them to plan a route where they walked straight through the heartland of the enemy.

Like he could ask them to pick who lived and who died.

_The Mad King did that every morning_ , he thought to himself, and resented the envy that rose up in him at how easy it must come to him by now.

It’d be worse with the others, who were more insistent on giving _advice_ and playing devil’s _advocate_ and arguing with him and-

He’d deal with it when they got there. They had a plan. Send in Dream and George, have them set explosives, get them out before it all blew up.

_Stick to the plan,_ he told himself, _stick to the plan._

The sun started to set as they reached the clearing. They hadn’t smelled smoke or heard chattering. That was a good sign, Techno tried to tell himself, it meant they were still trying to be covert.

They’d probably startle a little when they walked through into the clearing. Maybe they’d have their weapons raised, a crossbow mounted on Bad’s shoulder, Dream and Sapnap hunched down in a fighting stance. They’d relax though, pretty much instantly. Tommy would probably make some dumb comment about a rat picnic that he’d take ten minutes to explain to an utterly unimpressed Sapnap, and George would banter with him whilst he bandaged up his arm, and Bad, Skeppy, and Dream would be helping Tubbo set up a fire and swapping stories of the trouble they got in. Tommy would probably way over-exaggerate the spider fight. Tubbo would probably way over-exaggerate the fight with the Phantoms. George and Sapnap would get into a petty argument about one of their adventures, and Dream would let them, and Zak would sit next to him by the fire and make pleasant nothing conversation. They’d spend the night catching up, and in the morning they’d regroup and go over the plan, but for one night they’d be eight friends reuniting.

Hopefully nobody tried to hug him, he thought, as he stepped through the treeline into an empty clearing.

His mind went blank. He heard Tommy and Tubbo come to a stop behind him.

“Hello?” Tommy called out cautiously.

There was no sign anyone had been here. No ashes from dead fires, no imprints where bedrolls had been, no fish carcasses or footprints.

“Are we…in the right place?” Tubbo offered carefully.

Techno glanced behind him at the large lake. He pulled out his compass. This was the northern shore, it’s where he’d told them to wait. He nodded.

“Dream?” Tommy called out, taking a few careful steps forward, “Bad?”

Through the thinning treeline, Techno could make out the walls of the city. Beyond that, rising high on a hill overlooking the Capital, was the Mad King’s castle.

He tried to ignore the memories rising up, like a swelling tide. _He’d stood here with Wilbur eight years ago, a scratched up iron sword liberated from the stable in his left hand, Wilbur standing to his right. Him telling Wilbur not to follow him in – it being too dangerous. He’d had an ender pearl, given to him by a passing wandering trader in exchange for a place to sleep for the night, tucked away in the inner pocket of his cloak. He’d been filled with nervous excitement then, so confident that everything would go perfectly, that two fourteen-year-olds would be able to topple a regime._

“Well,” Tommy said, with what Techno knew was fake confidence, “they’re not like, supposed to be here by now anyway, are they?”

“Yeah, they are, I thought,” Tubbo said.

_Marching straight into the Capital, totally brazen, bull-headed. Marching right into the throne room, Wilbur with the horses out by the window. Manhunters twice his age rising to stop him, Techno dodging past them, ducking and weaving his way through the halls until he got to the throne room. Bursting in, followed by the thundering footsteps behind him, to see the Mad King sitting tall on his throne. Making a speech about liberation and the equality of man, about how rulers had a responsibility to the people and not the other way around. Half remembered fragments from a political scholar who’d passed through his parent’s stable. The Mad King laughing and waving the Manhunters away, asking Dan what he wanted. Dan saying he wanted the crown. The Mad King offering to duel him for it._

“It’s only been like….uh… two weeks and a couple of days though?” Tommy tried, again feigning casual.

“Yeah, they were only supposed to take about two weeks and a couple of days,” Tubbo said, “right, Techno?”

_The clashing and clanging of swords, the Mad King absolutely mercilessly pressing on, Dan unskilled and gangly, doing his best to harry him, the Mad King raising his sword for the killing blow. Dan stepped back, just in time for the sword to come down hard across his face, painful, the most painful thing he’d every experienced, blood gushing forth, the space where his nose had been now little more than a bloody nub. Collapsing to his knees, the pain unbearable, the Mad King planting a foot on his chest, sword raised high._

“Techno?”

_Dan reaching into his cloak and producing an ender pearl, throwing it desperately through the stained-glass window. His body moving nauseatingly through the air, crashing through the glass, everything painful, everything unbearably painful. Wilbur yelling, hoisting him up with some difficulty, slinging him onto a saddle and climbing on behind him. Blood everywhere. Tearing out of the capital._

“Dan?”

Techno made his way over to a tree, slinging off his pack and sitting down heavily.

_Dan and Wilbur riding for days, Wilbur dragging him along, doing his best to keep him from bleeding out. Them returning to their home in the desert, telling everyone to scatter. He was delirious still, but he didn’t think he’d imagined his parents’ stricken looks. They’d scattered. They’d gotten word that the whole town had been destroyed days later. Wilbur dragging his bleeding body across the whole world, to the edge of the ocean, told by some hag that there was somewhere they could go._

_Wandering through hell. Coming out the other side. A big empty field. Pitching tents._

_Wilbur doing his best to stave off infection. Dan spending most of his days in bed. Planning, planning. The plan had been bad. Everything had gone to hell because the plan had been bad, and it was his fault. He’d learn. He’d have a better plan next time._

_Biding his time. Waiting for his moment. Being handed a crown, getting out of bed every day, welcoming refugees. Building a city. Zak and Darryl arriving looking beat halfway to hell. Phil showing up with a haycart of supplies and two ten year olds. Welcoming refugees. Building a new system of government. Welcoming clerics. Welcoming farmers. Setting up a court. Biding his time until Wadzee showed up, bloody, telling him that the Mad King had finally misstepped, planning, planning carefully, accounting for all possibilities-_

Everything had gone to hell. The plan had been bad. That must’ve been it. Eight fucking years and he hadn’t learned a single fucking thing.

He could feel his breath coming hard and fast, pulled his knees up, tried counting up in prime numbers. The shadows of Tommy and Tubbo cast over him.

“Techno, Dan,” Tommy started, and he glanced up from where he was curled up against the tree, “if they don’t show up, what…what do we do?”

_What do we do?_ They had five days until the end of the three-week window, and then they’d have to make the push on to take the castle. The three of them, no backup, no explosives, it was certain to be a bloodbath. Nobody to go home and explain to Phil and Wilbur what had happened. Nobody to tell the waiting mothers about their sons. They’d have to go home, have come all this way for nothing. Let whatever had happened to the rest of them remain a mystery. They’d never know what happened to them. Their deaths for nothing. The promises he’d made to the villagers broken. Or they’d press on, and go to their deaths. Can’t go forward. Can’t go back.

He felt the gaze of the woman from Samson, every hopeful look thrown his way in Ravengrave. The watchful eyes of Wilbur and Phil. The watchful eye of history.

Tommy and Theo were watching him too, anxiously waiting for an answer. What do we do?

Years from now, whatever words of wisdom he had for them would be transcribed into history books. _Veni, vidi, vici. There is nothing impossible to him who will try. In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity._

“I…” he started, and his mouth felt dry and painful, and the words had to claw their way out of his throat inch by bloody inch. “I don’t know.”

Tommy and Theo shared a look. Confusion, maybe. Anxiety. Concern. It hurt to look at.

He put his forehead against his knees again, and the next time he spoke it came out muffled.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

* * *

The following morning was icy, following the cold snap. Darryl said it was probably the last cold snap of the season, winter’s last hurrah, or something. Zak wasn’t paying attention.

His leg was in _agony_. Something about the cold, or the way he’d slept, or the fact that they’d been walking for days on end up steep muddy hills.

He woke up gritting his teeth, trying to stretch it out as Darryl slowly packed up his bedroll. They had another long climb today – once they reached the peak of the next Hill they had to bear west towards the northern shore of Kirton lake, where Dan and the others would be waiting expectantly for them. It was the last day of travel, and Zak just wanted to get it over with. They had enough explosives by now, using the moments in the night where Zak was woken by nightmares to work on them.

They were close.

They were so, _so_ close to making the Mad King pay for what he’d done.

He wasn’t about to let an injury stand in the way of it. He levered himself to his feet, slung the pack over his shoulders.

“You ready?” he asked, already out of breath. Darryl was giving him that _look,_ and it made something deep and angry stir in him. He tried to smile convincingly, and turned to hobble up the hill.

“Zak, please, can’t we just take a day?” Darryl called. Zak could just _picture_ his face, earnestly contorted into oh-so innocent worry, oh-so holier-than-thou worry.

They’d been friends a long time.

“We’re like, basically there, Darryl!” he called over his shoulder. Darryl hadn’t moved. He turned, walking backwards up the hill with some difficulty, and offered him his best, most charismatic smile.

Darryl sighed and followed, pushing the glasses further up his face. “So it won’t make a difference if we’re a little late.”

Zak turned forwards again so Darryl wouldn’t see the scowl. “I said not to baby me, Darryl.”

The sky above them was a brilliant pale blue, clear, sunny.

“Zak, this isn’t _babying_ you, this is worrying about a _friend_ , who’s clearly in a lot more pain than he’s-“

“Leave it alone.”

“Leave it alone? You’re injured!” Darryl cried despairingly, “I don’t get why you won’t just take a rest-“

“Because the sooner we get there, the sooner the Mad King dies,” Zak called out, over his shoulder. He pressed on, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg. There were a few minutes of blessed silence.

“Zak.”

“Once we get there, we’re one step closer to making him pay for what he did,” he said, “and one step closer to George, who can give me a magic potion and tell me what’s wrong with me.”

“Zak-“

“And then we can watch, from the boughs of the trees, as that muffin-ing castle and all the muffin-ing muffin in it goes up in a blaze of fire that _we_ made, Darryl, and _we’ll_ have made him-

“Zak!” Darryl said, and Zak turned around then, viciously, eyes blazing. Darryl was a short distance away, his hands balled up at his side. “I need you to understand, okay? I do not give a single fuck about killing the Mad King.”

Zak blinked a couple of times, the swearing catching him off guard, but-

“How-“ he stammered, “How could you say that? After everything he- You…”

“What _ever_ , Zak, we were out!” Darryl cried, gesturing behind him, “we were safe, we were free-“

“I carried you out of that dungeon, Bad,” Zak said, trying to keep his voice even, “I carried you out on my back-“

“-We could have lived our lives in peace in one of the many rooms we helped Dan build, but then you got it in your head that you wanted revenge for what he did to _you_ -“

“No,” Zak said, taking a step forward, feeling desperately misunderstood, “No, I want revenge for what he did to _us_ , Darryl, you were-“

“I know, Zak, I was there, I got sent to debtor’s jail and you got sent to train with his corps, I was there for all that, and I’m telling you that I don’t care. It’s in the past.”

“Then why did you even bother coming?” Zak asked, feeling scraped raw, feeling like a live wire, “If you don’t care about killing the Mad King, or saving everyone, or getting revenge-“

“I came because you were going to go either way, you idiot!” Darryl cried, taking several steps towards him, “I came because _you_ were going and if I wasn’t here to babysit you-“

“I do not need babysitting, you-“

“-you would go and get yourself killed, because that’s all you do, all I do is watch you nearly get yourself killed, over, and _over_ -“

“-self righteous prig, I never asked-“

“-and I couldn’t live with myself if I let you-“

“-you to do that, and you’ve never _let_ me do anything, I’m my own person-“

“-die chasing some sort of penance for all the _stuff_ you think _you did to me,_ because you-“

The sound of the blow reached Zak’s ears before he had even processed the fact that he had swung. Darryl staggered back, holding his jaw.

Zak was breathing heavily. He felt sick through his whole body.

“Then go,” he spat, only vaguely aware of what he was doing. “Go home, if you don’t wanna be here. I don’t want you here either, then.”

Darryl looked at him with naked fury on his face. But they’d been friends a long time, and Zak knew there was hurt, real hurt in his expression as well.

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

They stood there, red in the face, heaving deep breaths. Face to face. Staring each other down.

_Please don’t go,_ Zak thought, _go. I can’t stand you. I love you. Don’t go._

Darryl picked up his pack and roughly pulled out the blocks of explosives, throwing them at Zak’s feet. He gave him one last look and turned back the way they had come. “I’ll read something nice at your memorial.”

Zak watched him go. Darryl didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for 5k kudos! It's super crazy. To celebrate, I'm doing a charity stream (first and probably only LOL) for Mermaids, the main trans-charity in the UK. 27/02/2020 at around this time, on twitch/hognosesnake2 (hognosesnake was taken :c). Come and ask me whatever questions you have about the lltk series, donate some money to Mermaids, it'll be a great time! 
> 
> I'm also on twitter, @SnakeHognose, follow me for updates about updates and shitposts and lovely fanart drawn by my lovely friends and followers
> 
> Other than that, see you on the 20th of March for the next update. 
> 
> Snakey Love, 
> 
> 🐍hiss hiss🐍

**Author's Note:**

> I have a twitter! Follow me for updates about updates and also me contributing absolutely nothing to mcyttwt https://twitter.com/SnakeHognose
> 
> 🐍Snakey Love 🐍
> 
> Hiss Hiss


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